SingleO
by Jane Westin
Summary: Shawn and Carlton puzzle through a murder at a sideshow...and their feelings for each other.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Single-O

Author: Jane Westin

Pairing: Shawn/Carlton

Rating: NC17

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine.

Notes: A HUGE thank-you to tera_gram for beta-reading, and for her thoughtful and insightful comments. You're awesome, dude.

The blade flashes as he draws back his arm. His eyes are narrowed dangerously; his hand tightens on the knife's handle. He has her in his sights.

Her eyes widen. Her lips part as though she is about to speak, perhaps to beg for her life.

In one quick motion, he flicks his wrist and releases the knife. It streaks through the air, embeds itself in the wood beside her head. The audience lets out a collective breath. A second later, they erupt in applause.

Dangerous Johnny gestures grandly at his lovely assistant; she steps away from the five knives framing her body, takes Dangerous Johnny's hand, and together, they take a bow.

"Not bad," Gus concedes.

"I told you!" Shawn crows, as the audience begins to drift away from the stage. "Sideshows aren't just for weirdos and Midwesterners any more." He points at a trio of bespectacled twentysomethings wearing skinny jeans and dirty Chucks. "They're like hipster festivals."

Gus looks past Shawn's pointing finger toward a young couple in matching silver cloaks and black lipstick. "I think the weirdos are still around."

"Maybe," Shawn says, "but the point is, now it's cool." They start walking, following the crowd. Temporary stages are set up every fifteen feet, each with its own elaborate poster: The Blockhead, Fish Girl, Bendable Benjamin, Francesco the Fire-Dancer. Shawn counts twelve stages that he can see, and it looks as though there are at least a couple rows of midway games near the rides.

"Dude!" Shawn punches Gus on the arm. "There are bumper cars!"

"I am not riding bumper cars, Shawn," Gus says, rubbing his arm and glaring at Shawn. "You know my sternocleidomastoids are weak. Besides, we didn't come here for the rides. This is a very well-known sideshow. It was written up in _Festive California_."

Shawn is so appalled by this statement that he momentarily can't think of a retort. To buy time, he stops at a frozen lemonade stand. "Gus, please. You don't have _nearly_ enough cats to be reading things like _Festive California._ I'm going to pretend you said _ESPN Magazine_ instead," he says. "Two, please...thanks." He hands the teenage girl working the stand eight dollars and accepts the lemonades.

"Oh, did you want one?" he asks innocently, when Gus holds out his hand.

"Shut up, Shawn." Gus snatches a lemonade and takes a huge sip, then clutches his head. "Ow."

"That's what you get for being an old lady," Shawn says, sipping his lemonade. Then he seizes Gus's sleeve. "Ooh, look! Chinese acrobats!"

Gus frowns as he examines the poster, which says _Beijing's Darlings_ and features a blown-up photograph of six acrobats in impossible-looking contortions. "I think that's racist," he says.

"Racist schmasist," Shawn replies. "They're wearing so much makeup you can't tell _what _they are."

"There are pagodas in the background," Gus points out.

"There are pagodas in Beijing," Shawn says.

Gus narrows his eyes. "Do you really know that, or are you just making something up to prove your point and it happens to be true?"

Shawn doesn't get a chance to reply, though, because at that moment, music starts to play through the speakers near the stage. The curtain opens, and six young women walk out.

"I know this song," Shawn says. He focuses for a minute. "Yep. I know it."

Gus gives him a look. "Since when do you listen to zither music?"

"Since it's a zither, whatever that is, remix of that Bjork song. The one from the movie about the chick in the swan dress."

"_Dancer in the Dark_, and the chick in the swan dress _was_ Bjork." Gus rolls his eyes.

"That's a direct reflection on your manliness, dude." Shawn grins at Gus's scowl, then turns his attention to the stage. The Darlings are older than Shawn would have expected: they look about college-age. He wonders if this is a summer gig to pay for school. They're wearing matching spangled leotards, blue and silver, and have tinsel wrapped around the buns in their hair.

"Only one of them is Asian," he says pointedly. "And she wasn't even on the poster. So, not racist."

"Whatever," Gus mumbles.

The Darlings have started their show. It's not exactly Cirque de Soleil, but it's not bad either: they're backbending and handstanding and climbing over each other like pros, their movements smooth and well-rehearsed.

So it startles even Shawn when there's a loud cracking sound and the redhead drops through the floorboards.

"What the-" Gus starts to say, but he stops, because now there is screaming.

The audience is frozen, exchanging scared glances: _is someone going to do something?_ The other five acrobats are staring at the hole in the stage, also motionless. Then Shawn sees a young woman dart forward, climb onto the stage, and drop to all fours next to the hole. He sees her expression change as though in slow motion: fear concern shock horror determination. She points toward the other acrobats. "Call nine-one-one," she orders, then swings feet-first into the hole.

It isn't a tall stage, maybe four feet high, so Shawn can still see her as he shoulders his way forward. He hears Gus behind him: "Shawn! What are you doing? Come back here! _Shawn!"_ But he ignores the questions, because he can still hear the redhead screaming, and obviously something is very wrong.

He jumps onto the stage and half-crawls, half-rolls toward the woman, who is now hauling the redhead out of the hole. The redhead is crying, clutching at her knee, still half-screaming. "Oh my God," she wails. "Oh my God, oh my _God_!"

Shawn hops to his feet, seizes the redhead under the arms, and pulls her the rest of the way up. She scuttles backwards, shrieking again when the injured knee hits the stage.

Shawn looks at the young woman, who's still standing in the hole. She looks grim. Shakes her head a little. He leans forward and peers toward her feet.

Ah.

He can't see much because of the shadows under the stage, but he can see an arm, a leg, a men's wristwatch. And blood.

"Guess that explains the screaming," Shawn says.

The young woman eases herself back onto the stage. "Don't say _anything_," she hisses. She looks from one side of the stage to another, her eyes moving quickly, scanning, and takes a few quick steps. There are six hanging ropes on the side of the stage and she follows the path of each one with her gaze before seizing one and pulling. The curtain moves.

She pulls until the curtain is closed, and of course now the stage is full of people. Carnival employees, a balding man in a button-down shirt, and two audience members who followed Shawn onto the stage. Shawn can hear the excited buzz of the rest of the audience. He hopes carnival security can handle the crowd control.

"Excuse me." Shawn hears Gus's voice. "Shawn!"

A second later he's at Shawn's shoulder, looking down into the hole. "What's going-"

Then he sees the body and immediately starts gagging.

"Stay back, buddy," Shawn advises, and catches the young woman's sleeve. She's talking to the manager now, and stops when Shawn puts his hand on her arm.

"Thanks," she says.

"No problem." Shawn takes a split second to assess her. Short dark hair. Odd eyes: one green, one hazel-almost-brown. Freckles across her nose - she probably burns instead of tans. Her jeans are torn at the knee, and he can see a long scrape, blood on her pale skin. She's wearing Vans. He sticks out his hand. "Shawn Spencer."

She looks at him oddly, but takes his hand. "Bethany Abel."

The manager is sweating, flustered, panicking. His name tag says "Brain."

"Brain!" Shawn offers his hand and now the manager looks even more confused. "Pinky. Nice to meet you. What're your plans for the night?"

"What? What? I-" His palm is clammy against Shawn's and he clutches Shawn's hand a little too long.

"My name's Brian," the balding man says. "I'm the acrobats' manager."

There isn't time for more, though, because at that moment EMTs appear from backstage. Two of them drop to their knees beside the still-sobbing redhead; the other two start toward Shawn, Bethany, and Brian/Brain.

Shawn points toward the hole in the stage. "There," he says. "But I'm pretty sure there isn't a lot you're going to be able to do."

* * *

"Of course you had to be the one to find the body," Lassiter says. He looks grumpy, which makes Shawn feel simultaneously triumphant (he loves getting under Lassie's skin, loves it loves it loves it) and sulky. As much as he likes irritating Lassiter, a part of him kind of wishes, just a little, just a tiny bitty bit, that Lassie didn't have to get _quite_ so mad at him all the time.

"To be fair, I didn't actually find it." Shawn reaches across Lassiter for the case file, wincing and scowling when Lassiter swats him away. "That redhead found it. All I did was point at it." He grabs for the file again, neatly dodging Lassiter's hand, and this time he gets it. He tucks it under his butt.

"Spencer," Lassiter warns, but he's interrupted by Juliet.

"Deceased's name is Victor Ernest Xavier," she says as she approaches Lassiter's desk. She puts her own file folder on Lassiter's desk and Shawn catches a whiff of her perfume, light and floral and pretty. "He was an developer, worked primarily with condominiums and townhomes. Company's called DeluxDream."

"Any relationship to the sideshow?" Lassiter asks. He stands up and comes around behind Shawn's chair, puts a hand on Shawn's shoulder, and gives him a little shove to extract the file folder. Shawn resists the shove just long enough that Lassiter's knuckles brush his back pocket, then rolls forward and winds up on the floor. He curls his knees to his chest and looks up at Lassiter. He looks even taller from down here, and so so handsome. Shawn can see up his nose.

"Get off the floor, Shawn." Gus is frowning at him.

Shawn does, scrambling back into his chair. His shoulder is tingling where Lassiter pushed him. So is his right butt cheek.

"None so far," Juliet says. "He wasn't even trying to buy the lot."

"Relatives?"

"A daughter, Rebecca. She works at a bookstore in Boston. We haven't been able to get a hold of her."

Lassiter frowns. "Well, keep trying," he says. "Did you get anything out of the rest of the witnesses?"

Juliet shakes her head. "Bethany Abel said she didn't even really see the body, let alone touch it, she was just trying to get the dancer out of the hole in the stage. Got pretty scraped up doing it, too."

"Well." Lassiter's frown deepens. "Round up the carnival management and all the performers. We need to find out the link between our dead guy and that carnival." He picks up the rest of the files on his desk and heads toward the Chief's office. Adds over his shoulder, "And someone find Rebecca Xavier!"

Shawn watches Lassiter walk away and sighs. When Lassiter gets like this, there's no getting to him, no matter how much Shawn tries. He's going to have to escalate - steal Lassie's briefcase or something. Or put toothpaste in his pencil jar again, that was pretty funny.

He realizes Gus is looking him, eyes narrowed.

"Shawn - " Gus starts, but Juliet interrupts.

"You haven't had any visions, have you, Shawn?" she asks.

Shawn shakes his head. "Not yet, Jules, sorry," he says.

"In that case, I think you better clear out for the afternoon. Lassiter's really busy and I have a dentist appointment in a half hour." She makes an apologetic face.

Shawn looks at Gus. The odd, calculating expression is gone.

Well, at least they'll be able to do some snooping. "Sure, Jules," Shawn says. He grabs his jacket. "See you."

* * *

"Why is it always so _cold_ in here?" Shawn wonders aloud as he pushes the morgue doors open.

Woody pops up from behind the gurney. "You don't want to smell it in here when the air conditioning goes out," he says. "Trust me, it's better cold."

Behind Shawn, Gus makes a gagging noise.

"If you're going to throw up, use the sink on the left," Woody says mildly. "It has a garbage disposal."

"Ew," Shawn says. He looks at the body of Victor Xavier, pale and nude on the table, the Y-incision on the chest still gaping. There are puncture wounds peppering his shoulders.

Shawn still finds dead bodies a little bit...crawly. But unlike Gus, he's gotten pretty good at swallowing his puke. "So whatcha got, Woody?"

"Glad you asked, Shawn!" Woody beams. "It's really interesting, actually. There are a lot of lacerations, as you can see, but I'm not sure that most of them didn't occur postmortem."

"Postmortem?" Gus asks. "Like he was dead before he got stabbed?"

"It's possible." Woody probes one of the wounds with the tip of his pen. "There's no evidence of increased blood flow to the areas where the injuries were incurred." He points to a purplish thing on the counter. "See this? It's a lung."

Shawn looks up briefly when Gus runs out of the room, then turns his attention back to Woody. "Okay," he says.

Woody uses the pen to push the lung around on the cutting board. "There are three lung lacerations, but there was no blood in the pleural space, no hematoma, nothing. The tissue looks like it usually does when I cut it. In other words, no blood flow." He puts the pen in his pocket. "None of the stab wounds hit any major arteries, either. He wouldn't have died from injuries to the deltoid, but weight-lifting after that would have sucked." He chuckles at his own joke.

"So what killed him?" Shawn asks.

"Not totally sure yet. I sent off some tox studies." Woody reaches for a needle and starts sewing up the incision on Xavier's chest. "He had a lot of needle marks on his abdomen, too, but he had a glucometer in his pocket, so those were likely from administration of insulin."

He holds a little gadget out toward Shawn. Shawn takes a moment to pull on gloves, then reaches out and takes it from Woody. He flips through the last three readings: 479, 422, 398. He doesn't know what any of those mean, so he puts the glucometer back down and throws the gloves away.

"This is such an _interesting_ job." Woody hums happily as he sews.

Shawn looks the body over. There are bruises over the arms, legs, and around three of the needle punctures on the abdomen. "Did he get beat up?"

Woody shakes his head. "Not really the bruise pattern I'd expect from assault. Shins, arms - those are common places to bruise. You run into doors, tables - "

"The floor," Shawn adds, thinking of the conversation with Lassiter.

Woody continues as though he hasn't heard. "The weird part is that there was blood in the nose and the mouth, too, but no fractures or lacerations there. Almost as though his mucosa and gingiva just spontaneously started bleeding." He pulls the final stitch tight, looks around the room as though he's lost something, then shrugs and severs the thread with his teeth.

Shawn shudders. "Thanks, Woody. I appreciate it."

"No problem, man!" Woody waves cheerfully. "Have a pleasant day!"

He finds Gus outside the door. "You'll be glad you missed that last bit," Shawn says.

"I'm sorry I saw any of it," Gus says weakly. "I don't know why I keep coming down here. I don't have the stomach."

"Neither does Xavier." Shawn slaps him on the shoulder as they walk. "Hey, question for you."

"Make it an easy one. I think all those morgue fumes melted my brain."

Shawn opens the door to the stairwell for Gus and follows him up, matching his stride to Gus's. "What does a gluco-meter -"

"Glucometer," Gus corrects, pronouncing it correctly.

"Sugar reader," Shawn amends. "What do 472, 422, and 398 mean on one of those?"

Gus wrinkles his brow. "Those are really high blood sugars, Shawn."

"How high?" Shawn points and winks at the security guard as they leave; the guard points and winks back.

"High enough to make you sick," Gus says. "Why?"

"No reason." Shawn slides into the Echo with no further elaboration, and after a moment, Gus shrugs and follows suit.

Shawn fiddles with the radio for a few minutes. He really wants to tell Gus, but he's not sure what Gus will say.

"I like Lassiter," he says at last.

Gus doesn't respond for a moment. When he does, his tone is careful, measured. "Yeah, he's okay."

_Aaaaargh._ "No, Gus. I _like_ Lassiter."

There's a long silence. Gus keeps driving. At the next intersection, Gus turns right and pulls into a gas station parking lot.

"Say that one more time," he says.

Shawn obliges. "I like Lassiter."

"No." Gus turns in his seat to face Shawn fully. "Like you said it before. Like the L in "like" was capitalized."

Shawn sighs. He had hoped this would be easier, but he had had a feeling it would go like this. "It _was_ capitalized, Gus."

"No." Gus turns back to the steering wheel, puts the car in gear, and starts driving again like nothing had happened.

After about a minute, Shawn begins to realize that maybe Gus really does think he's refuted the entire topic. "What do you mean, no?"

Gus glances at Shawn, then back at the road. "I mean no. You've made some bad dating decisions in the past, Shawn, but this is by far the worst."

"What do you mean, the worst? You just said Lassiter was okay." Shawn pulls his lips into a pout. He'd expected Gus to be uncomfortable with it. He'd expected him to be incredulous. Hell, he could see Gus even being a little bit mad. But this?

"I said that when he was just our co-worker, Shawn," Gus snaps, executing a perfect left turn and pulling the Echo precisely between the lines of their usual parking spot. "Now that he's the object of your affections, I feel one hundred percent different about him."

"For starters-" Shawn fumbles in his pants pockets for the keys to the Psych office, finds them, unlocks the door. "-you can't feel one hundred percent different about someone. That doesn't even make sense. You measure your feelings for someone in degrees, not percentages. For example, you can feel one hundred and eighty degrees different about Lassiter now."

"Don't argue semantics with me right now, Shawn," Gus drops into his chair, opens his laptop, and pointedly does not look at Shawn.

"Okay, okay, no semantics." Shawn drops into his chair, rolls it over to Gus, and stares at him.

"Stop staring at me, Shawn."

Shawn keeps staring.

"Stop _staring_ at me, Shawn!"

Shawn pushes the rolling chair backwards and folds his arms. "I will when you tell me what's wrong with Lassiter."

Gus sighs, then. He closes his laptop and turns to Shawn.

"Look," he says, and his voice is serious now. "I already knew you liked Lassiter."

Huh?

"You did not," Shawn says accusingly. "How could you know? I'm really good at keeping stuff like that secret. Nothing gets out. I'm like Jodie Foster's panic room."

"People couldn't get _in_ to the panic room," Gus says. "Anyway, you might be able to keep things from other people. Not from me."

Shawn considers this for a moment. Gus has a point. He's never been able to keep anything from Gus, not even the time he stole his Tamagotchi (which kind of made him suspect that Gus was harboring psychic powers of his own in that sweet dome).

"I think you've liked Lassiter pretty much from day one," Gus says. "It was kind of inevitable, you have to admit. Think about your last three boyfriends."

Shawn considers. Derek, tall and thin, a grouchy drunk. Andrew, tall and thin, an emotionally unavailable jerk. Rob, short and chunky, mind-numbingly boring.

"Two out of three. Granted. He's got it on looks, that's for sure." Shawn reaches for a pencil from Gus's desk and flicks it at the ceiling. "Keep in mind that those were my _only_ three boyfriends. The _n_ is too small to draw any conclusions."

"Shawn, the only reason you know what _n_ is is because I explained it to you last week," Gus says. "And yes, you do seem to have a type. Unfortunately, your type is mean."

"Lassiter isn't mean!" Shawn says indignantly.

Gus just looks at him until he caves and shrugs. "Okay, maybe he's sort of mean."

Gus sighs. "You know that whatever you do, I'll support you. I really will."

He really will. Gus is such a good friend. Shawn loves Gus, really _loves_ him, that kind of _Steel Magnolias _love that makes grown men well up with tears, and he generally believes what Gus tells him when Gus uses that heart-to-heart tone of voice. But he suspects he's not going to believe the next thing Gus says.

"But." There it is. The But.

"But what?" Shawn doesn't really want to hear it, but he asks anyway.

"But think about it, Shawn. Please think about it. Lassiter is a good cop and a good guy, but he has no capacity for emotions. Look at how he dealt with his separation. Plus, you drive him crazy."

"I do drive him crazy." Shawn has to suppress a grin of pride when he says it. "But I drive him crazy because I like him."

"And..." Gus pauses.

"Yeah? What?"

"It's not that I don't trust your judgment on this, Shawn, but how do you even know he, um, plays for your team?"

Shawn immediately flashes to Lassie in full softball regalia, complete with three-quarter-length sleeves and cleats. Mmm.

"Shawn!" Gus wads up a Post-It note and tosses it at Shawn. It bounces off his forehead. "Focus, please."

Shawn focuses. "Oh, I know." He smiles, recalling the times he hacked into Lassiter's computer to scope out his browsing history. "If his secret file of shirtless Robert Downey, Jr photos is any indication."

Gus makes a horrible face. "Ack."

"Sorry." Shawn is gleeful. Gus is out of rebuttals.

"Well." Gus seems unconvinced. "Do what you want, Shawn. But don't come crying to me when Lassiter kicks you to the curb."

"That's exactly what I'm going to do, and you know it."

Gus sighs. "Yeah. I know."


	2. Chapter 2

"Detective Lassiter!"

Carlton looks up. Chief Vick is approaching, arms full of files. She drops them on his desk with an 'oof' and stands straighter, rubbing her lower back.

"Call Mr. Spencer," she instructs, " and get these in order. We're meeting in the conference room in an hour. I have news."

Carlton rolls his eyes so hard his head moves. "Chief, do we have to-"

"_Yes_," Vick snaps. "Call him and get him here. Within the hour, Carlton."

"Uggghhh," Carlton complains aloud, but he reaches for his phone. When Spencer answers, he orders "Be at the station in fifteen minutes and _do not be late_" and hangs up.

Thirty seconds later, his phone buzzes. It's a text from Spencer.

_Poor Lassie. U snd strsd! Need msg? 3 3 3_

Msg? Message? _Massage. _Carlton feels his face heat up, and he fumbles for the Delete button. "Idiot," he mumbles, and he feels like he always does when Spencer sends him a message like that (or crawls on his lap, or gropes him in full view of the entire precinct, or does something else that's grossly inappropriate): flustered and confused and a little bit aroused. It infuriates him he responds like that to Spencer's overtures, especially when he knows full well that Spencer doesn't mean a word of it.

Carlton begins to shuffle through the files Vick dropped on his desk. Rationalizes. It's purely physical. Biological. He hasn't gotten laid in...oh God. Has it been a year since he met up with Gabriel and drank too much whiskey?

He tries and fails to push the thought back down. It makes him feel dizzy and nauseated: he doesn't remember much of that night, but he remembers the morning after with horrible clarity. Ten years of doing everything he could to make himself normal, and it all went to hell after three drinks with an old flame.

And now here's Spencer, crawling under his skin, unearthing feelings better left buried.

"You don't look so good."

Carlton jumps. "_What_ do you want?"

O'Hara looks affronted. "Sorry," she says crossly. "Here."

She sets a large coffee on Carlton's desk and walks away.

He feels immediately guilty. O'Hara might be pushy, but she means well, and she did just bring him coffee. "O'Hara," he says.

She turns, lips pursed primly to indicate her displeasure.

"Sorry," he says.

The lips un-purse almost immediately and she's back at his side. "That's okay," she says. "I was just wondering because you looked kind of sick or mad or something. And I-"

He interrupts her. "O'Hara!"

Unfazed: "Yeah?"

Carlton sinks his teeth into his tongue to prevent a surly retort. "I'm feeling fine," he grits out.

"Oh, okay, good, because Chief Vick-"

"Wants to meet in an hour, I know." He picks the pile of folders up and thrusts them at her. "Organize these, will you?"

* * *

Carlton hears the commotion from outside the conference room, which can only mean one thing. Spencer is here.

He reaches over and cracks the blinds and sure enough, there's Spencer, spinning like a dervish and ricocheting wildly from one side of the room to the other. He takes a few giant, lurching steps toward the conference room, Guster on his heels, and falls through the door.

"Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet," he's chanting. He reaches for O'Hara, who's followed Guster into the conference room, and brushes his hands over her face. He stops momentarily, regards her. "Sweet, but no dice," he says, and then resumes his lunatic staggering.

"Chief-" Carlton starts to say, but Vick, eyes on Spencer, holds up a hand to silence him.

Carlton tenses when Spencer careens toward him, but Spencer just glances up at him-flash of cautious hazel-then darts away again. Suddenly he reaches for Guster's messenger bag.

"Hey!" Guster protests, but Spencer's hands are already in the bag.

"Sweet!" he says triumphantly, pulling out a package of Red Vines.

"Candy?" O'Hara guesses.

"Sugar! Eating so many Red Vines...you have to be careful, you can't eat too much, you might get sick. Sick and sweet..." Spencer shoves a fistful of Red Vines into his mouth.

"Food poisoning!" Vick says.

"No!" Spencer tries to talk around the mouthful of candy. "'Onger 'an 'at. 'Ears n 'ears n 'ears."

"Years?" Guster says.

There's a long pause as Shawn chews, swallows, and coughs. Guster reaches over to pound him on the back, and he falls into a chair. "Yes," he says, "years and years, it makes you so weak, and my feet! My feet are...numb!"

"Diabetes!" O'Hara exclaims, and looks delighted when Spencer points at her.

"Yes!" he cries. "Diabetes! I sense that our victim was taking insulin."

Vick picks up the dossier on Xavier and taps the autopsy report. "He had diabetes," she says, "but he got stabbed, Mr. Spencer. What does that have to do with the murder?"

"I sense-" Spencer's hand hovers at his temple. "I sense that _there was something wrong with his insulin!_ His blood sugar was high and he was-" he sags backwards-"so...weak..."

"Chief." Carlton is simultaneously disgusted and embarrassed by Spencer's display. "We're not going to-"

"Shut up, Detective," Vick says sharply. "Go on, Mr. Spencer."

"It was replaced by something." Spencer waves both hands in the air. "I see a label...a medication label! An H...and an E..."

O'Hara scrambles for a pen. "Keep going," she encourages, scrawling the letters on her notepad.

"P..." Spencer shuts his eyes as though in pain. "I can't see it...it's too shadowy..." He rolls his chair over to Carlton and plants both hands firmly on Carlton's stomach.

Carlton leaps backwards so fast he almost falls over one of the other chairs. He sucks air. "Chief!" he complains.

She ignores him, watching Spencer, who is now clutching his head.

"A..." he gasps. "R, I, N."

"Heparin," O'Hara reads.

"Heparin!" Spencer howls. "He was being dosed with heparin!" His eyes fly open.

"It would have been easy to overpower him if he was weak because of high blood sugar," Vick says thoughtfully. "Mr. Guster, can you tell us what heparin does?"

"It's an injectable anticoagulant," Guster says immediately. "A glycosaminoglycan, if we're being scientific."

"We aren't," Vick says. "In English, please, Mr. Guster."

"A blood thinner," Guster explains. "Keeps you from clotting."

Spencer jumps out of his chair, lurches toward Carlton, and seizes Carlton's pen from his jacket pocket. His eyes bulge as he makes stabbing motions in midair. "_Ree ree ree ree ree."_

"Shawn. It's not the time for Psycho," Guster says.

"The stab wounds!" Shawn points the pen at Vick. "They didn't hit any major organs. They didn't have to. His blood was like Sprite...full of sugar...and clotted about as well." He exhales and collapses into a chair, eyes closed.

"Where...did he get...the insulin?" he gasps.

Vick is focused on the dossier. "He's right," she says. "The stab wounds didn't hit any major organs." She shuts the file. "O'Hara."

"Yes, Chief." O'Hara stands a little straighter.

"Get to the pharmacy where Victor filled that insulin prescription. Interview all the pharmacists. Detective Lassiter!"

Carlton snaps to attention. He realizes he'd been watching Spencer, who is still sprawled in the chair. Spencer opens his eyes when he hears Carlton's name.

Carlton looks away from Spencer. "Yes, Chief."

"We've found Rebecca Xavier. The Boston PD has kindly agreed to cooperate with our investigation. You're going to fly out and interview her." Vick hands him a printed boarding pass. "Tomorrow."

"What?" Carlton is stunned. "Chief, I really think I'd be more useful here-"

"We need to find out her connection to the sideshow, if any," Vick says, interrupting him. "Looks like she's the sole beneficiary of his estate and life insurance." She pauses. "Furthermore, as Detective O'Hara is going to be tied up interviewing pharmacists, I think it would be most beneficial if Mr. Spencer and Mr. Guster went with you."

"_What? _Chief, that's the worst idea in-" He stops when he sees the look on Vick's face. Boston? With Spencer? He'll either die of annoyance or of sexual frustration.

Knowing Spencer, probably the former.

Guster raises a hand. "Um, Chief? Tomorrow is Thursday."

Vick gives Guster a dangerous look. "I'm aware of that, Mr. Guster."

Guster clears his throat. "Well, as you may or may not also be aware of-"

"Ending a sentence with a preposition," Spencer mumbles under his breath.

"I _know_, Shawn," Guster says irritably. "Anyway, Chief, _the thing of which you may or may not be aware_ is that I have this job, see-I can't really-"

"Very well." Vick doesn't seem to be fazed by Guster's rambling at all. "You stay here. Mr. Spencer, you'll go with Detective Lassiter to Boston. The flight is at eight in the morning." She looks at Spencer sharply. "See that you don't miss it."

Spencer grins. "Not for the world," he says.


	3. Chapter 3

Shawn can't think of anything better.

First, he's going on a vacation. Second, the vacation is free. And third-

"I'm going on a vacation with Lassie," Shawn crows.

Gus shakes his head. "Shawn, don't get any ideas."

"Oh, I've got a ton of ideas," Shawn says brightly. "Like, maybe the airplane is really cold and there's only one blanket and we have to share. Or maybe they accidentally mess up the hotel reservation and there's only one bed instead of two, like in _Paul._ Or maybe Lassie just-"

"Shut up, Shawn." Gus holds up a hand as though he's warding off Shawn's words. "I don't need to hear all your fantasies."

"I'm just saying," Shawn says. "This is a golden opportunity, Gus! Chances like this don't pop up every day!"

"I just-" Gus pauses. "I still think it's-" He purses his lips. "Inadvisable."

"Gus, Gus, Gus." Shawn drops a hand onto Gus's shoulder. "I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I got this."

Gus snorts. "Lassiter didn't seem too excited."

Shawn waves a dismissive hand. "Lassie's never excited about anything," he says. "Trust me, Gus. He'll never know what hit him."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Gus mutters.

Although, Shawn reflects later, after he's gone home for the night, Lassiter really did seem pretty upset about it. Like, more than his usual annoyance with Shawn. Like he was really, truly mad.

Shawn kicks off his shoes and wanders into his bedroom. Flops on his bed. Stares at the ceiling.

_Does_ he have this?

He knows that Lassiter hated him when they'd met. Granted, they'd met under pretty unfortunate circumstances, and he'd definitely embarrassed Lassie in front of, like, ten of his co-workers, but that doesn't really justify the level of dislike Lassiter still demonstrates.

He would have given up on Lassiter long ago if it weren't for the manhandling.

That's the weird part. Lassiter grabs Shawn _all the time._ Shoves him into walls, yanks him away from crime scenes, leads him around the station by the back of the neck. If Lassiter hates Shawn, why does he take every available opportunity to touch him?

Shawn didn't realize he had a crush on Lassiter at first. It didn't hit him until maybe six months ago, when they were stumped by the death of that astronomer, and suddenly he realized why he'd wanted to solve that case for Lassie. Since then, Shawn's tried everything short of taking his pants off to get Lassiter's attention, but everything he does just seems to annoy Lassiter more. No matter what he says, Lassie gets mad at him, or worse, thinks Shawn is laughing at him. Which couldn't be further from the truth because Lassie is the bravest strongest coolest person Shawn has ever met, except for maybe Gus, and Gus isn't all that brave. And okay, maybe Shawn beats Lassie to the punch most of the time, case-wise, but that doesn't mean he respects him any less.

So why can't Lassiter see that?

So this, Shawn decides, is the perfect opportunity. If he can't show Lassie how he feels by the end of this trip, he's going to sit him down and just tell him, even though that's the conversation he wants to have least in the entire world.

He rolls off the bed and stands. "I should pack," he says aloud.

Shawn is lackadaisical about a lot of things, but packing isn't one of them. The idea of being in a strange place without dental floss or hair product makes him shudder. He takes a little extra time picking out each day's outfit-he's going to be spending a long weekend with Lassie, after all, and he wants his clothes to _scream_ "hot and available." And, just because you never know, he packs his pineapple boxers, too.

After he finishes packing, he showers and tries to watch TV. Can't. Tries to read a book. Can't. Thoughts of Lassiter tumble over and over in his head like clothes in a dryer, and his brain refuses to shut off.

Eventually, he tucks his head under his pillow and square-roots prime numbers until at last he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

The sound of the car horn jolts Shawn awake. He's on his feet in an instant, peering out the window at Lassiter's cranberry Crown Vic outside.

_Shit._ He'd slept through his alarm.

Shawn struggles into a thermal shirt and jeans, finds his favorite canvas jacket crumpled on the floor of his closet, and jams his feet into his Chucks. Seizes his bag. Darts out the door and locks it behind him.

"Bed to car, ninety-one seconds," he boasts as he slides into Lassiter's passenger seat.

"You look like a hobo," Lassiter says.

"Good morning to you, too." Shawn rubs his eyes and squints in Lassiter's direction. Lassiter looks as though he didn't sleep all night: dark circles under his eyes, hair disheveled, skin even paler than usual. His suit is immaculate, as usual, but his tie is uneven and his right shoe is untied. "You okay, man?"

"Fine," Lassiter says shortly.

After ten minutes of silence, Shawn finally admits that this is actually pretty awkward. No Gus, so there's no one to play straight man; no Jules, so he can't dissipate any sexual energy by flirting. Even Henry's presence would have made this feel less...well, weird.

He unbuckles his seatbelt.

"Hey!" Lassiter's tone is sharp, reprimanding. That's more like it.

He half-crawls into the backseat and rejoices silently when Lassiter shoves at him with one hand.

"Sit down," Lassiter growls.

"Just a second." Shawn digs in his bag and finds his iPod, then drops back into his seat. He looks at Lassiter, hoping for more, but Lassiter has turned his attention back to the road.

Silence.

Shawn hates awkwardness. So he does the only thing he can think to do.

"Lassie?"

"Hm."

"I'm sorry."

Lassiter's expressions flickers. It takes him a moment to reply. "Excuse me?"

Pleased that he's managed to throw Lassiter a little, Shawn shrugs and settles back into his seat. "I said I'm sorry. I know you didn't want me on this trip, so I just want you to know that I'm not going to try to make it worse."

He puts his headphones in his ears, turns the volume up as loud as it will go, and closes his eyes. The ball is in Lassiter's court. Now all Shawn has to do is listen to Poison and wait.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to wait all that long. Halfway through _Body Talk_, Lassiter reaches over and plucks at Shawn's left earbud. It dislodges and bounces into his lap.

Shawn looks at Lassiter. "Can I help you?"

Lassiter's brows are knitted together. "I didn't not want you on this trip," he says grudgingly.

"Double negatives aside, yes you did too not want me on this trip." Shawn gives him his best go-ahead-prove-me-wrong face.

Lassiter opens his mouth as though to argue, then closes it again. "I didn't want you on this trip," he acknowledges.

"Thank you," Shawn says, even though his heart has plummeted to his toes.

"But," Lassiter adds, "now that you're here, we may as well make the best of it."

Shawn's heart shoots back up into his chest, knocking his lungs around a little, and reestablishes itself in its usual location. "That makes me Sam to your Frodo." He tilts his head. "Although you're really more of a Gandalf."

Lassiter glares.

"Sorry, sorry." Shawn makes a face and puts his ear buds back in. There's just no winning with some people.

By the time they land in LA, Shawn is beginning to think that maybe he won't be sharing an airline-issued blanket with Lassiter after all. Lassiter's only said four words to him since the conversation in the car: "This way" and "Hurry up." Although he said "this way" twice, so maybe that counts as six.

Shawn follows Lassiter through the airport, hoisting his Transformers backpack a little higher on his shoulders. "Lassie!"

Without breaking stride: "Yeah."

Shawn veers toward a TCBY. "I'm starving." They have almost an hour until their next flight and they're almost to the gate, so he's startled when Lassiter grabs his arm.

"No you're not," he says.

"But...but..." Shawn tries to drag his feet, but that just makes Lassiter tighten his grip. Come to think of it, maybe he should keep getting sidetracked. Lassie's hand feels nice and strong.

"Maybe we could hold hands instead," he suggests, which makes Lassiter immediately release his arm.

"Fine," Lassiter says grumpily. "Go get your stupid yogurt."

Lassiter doesn't smile even when Shawn buys him a banana-vanilla swirl with sprinkles. It could be that Lassie's just tired. Shawn is feeling pretty beat and he slept a whole six hours. But at least Lassiter eats the yogurt.

* * *

The flight from LA to Boston isn't full. There are a lot of empty aisles, which kind of makes Shawn nervous, because what if Lassiter decides he would rather sit by himself instead of next to Shawn?

Although Lassiter is in the middle seat, he doesn't show any sign of wanting to move. He puts his carry-on in the overhead bin and his briefcase under the seat in front of him and slides in next to Shawn. The armrest between them is up and out of the way, and Shawn is delighted to find that his left thigh brushes Lassiter's right when Lassiter sits down.

Lassiter leaves the armrest where it is, and Shawn does a tiny victory dance in his head.

"'Scuse me, C-Lass." Shawn reaches across Lassiter for the plastic-wrapped blanket that's on the aisle seat. "Do you need one?"

Lassiter looks at him for a long moment. "No," he says finally.

Although Shawn snuggles up to Lassiter on a regular basis, he doesn't get to spend extended periods of time this close to him, and he can't help feeling all stomach-fluttery and twitterpated. He unfolds the blanket. "Wanna share?" he says, hoping his grin hides the fact that he actually is kind of serious.

Lassiter's reply is quick this time. "No!"

"You're a grumpy Hobbit." Shawn wraps the blanket around himself, puts his head against the window, and closes his eyes.

When he wakes up, they're in the air.

Shawn blinks. The blanket has fallen into his lap, and he's tickled to see that Lassiter, also asleep, has pulled part of it over himself.

He looks at Lassiter.

Lassie wouldn't stand for Shawn staring at him for more than a second or two if he were awake, so Shawn indulges himself. Lets his gaze travel from Lassiter's hairline - just a little asymmetric, but oh so strong with not a hint of thinning - across his forehead, smoother in sleep; over his cheekbones and nose and that cute little chin. He only wishes he could see Lassiter's blue eyes, because he thinks that up close they would probably be extremely interesting.

Shawn closes his eyes for a moment, memorizes the feeling of Lassiter beside him: warm and solid, his breathing even and slow. His hands on his lap are open, palm-up. Shawn realizes that he almost never sees Lassiter's hands relaxed and still.

He tries to think about the case, but it's difficult. It's difficult because he feels so peaceful and calm and all he wants is to be present, here with Lassie.

He drifts.

"Spencer."

Lassiter is looking at him. His eyes look like the sky.

"Lassie." Shawn's neck feels stiff and sore; he must have fallen asleep again.

"Would you like something to drink, sir?" The flight attendant is peering at him over Lassiter's shoulder.

"Um." Shawn shakes his head to clear the cobwebs. "No. Thanks."

The flight attendant nods and moves on.

"Sleep well?" Lassiter drains his ginger ale.

"You're going to give yourself a brain freeze," Shawn says. He stretches, rolling his neck, and leans against Lassiter. "Mm, Lassie, you're warm."

"You have personal space issues, Spencer," Lassiter says, but he doesn't move away.

"Only with you, Lassieface," Shawn replies. He scoots a little closer and taps the little TV screens on the seats in front of them, Lassie's with his left hand, his own with his right. "Now come on. Let's watch a movie."

* * *

The first thing Shawn notices about the Boston police station is that everyone looks mean. He starts to tell Lassie that, but Lassie elbows him in the ribs because someone is approaching. It's a slender dark-haired woman with a detective's badge clipped to her belt.

"Can I help you?" the woman says, and not in a friendly way.

"Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD," Lassiter says. "We're looking for Detective Rizzoli."

"That's me." The woman loses a little of her defensive posture and sticks out her hand. "We've been expecting you."

Lassiter takes it. "Nice to meet you," he says, and jerks his chin in Shawn's direction. "This is-"

"Shawn Spencer, head psychic, SBPD," Shawn interrupts, shaking Rizzoli's hand and offering his best and brightest grin.

"Yeahhh," Rizzoli says, drawing out the word and arching an eyebrow. "Anyway. Detective Lassiter. I'm afraid we've got some bad news about your girl."

They follow Rizzoli deeper through the bullpen. "What bad news is that?" Lassiter says.

Rizzoli glances back at them. "She's dead."

"_What?_ How?" Lassiter looks stunned.

"Shot. Stabbed. Not sure in what order," Rizzoli says. "I'm about to see what our medical examiner found on the body. You can come if you want."

Rizzoli catches them up in the time it takes to walk downstairs to the morgue. Rebecca Xavier had been found the previous night in the foyer of her townhouse by her next door neighbor, with whom she regularly went running. The door was unlocked and the house was a mess, things broken everywhere.

"Maura," Rizzoli calls as they enter the morgue.

Shawn looks around, thinking of Woody's little workspace. "It's _big_ in here."

Sharp footfalls precede the appearance of an attractive blond in a tailored dress and extremely high heels. "Wow, quite a crowd," she remarks, removing her gloves.

This is their medical examiner? Shawn thinks, slightly regretfully, about Woody unwrapping a burrito mid-autopsy.

"Dr. Maura Isles. She's our chief medical examiner," Rizzoli says.

Another round of introductions, and then Isles puts on a new pair of gloves and reaches for the sheet covering the body.

"Don't tell me she does autopsies in that getup," Shawn whispers to Rizzoli.

Rizzoli's eyes crinkle, but her mouth stays serious. "She does everything in that getup," she whispers back.

Shawn turns his attention back to Isles. "The bullet entered on the right side of the neck, just lateral to the trachea," she's saying to Lassiter. "It nicked the internal carotid. Exit wound was at the right occipital skull."

"And the stab wounds?" Rizzoli says.

"Mostly centered on the chest and shoulders," Isles says. She touches a wound directly over Rebecca Xavier's heart. "The left ventricle was pierced, the lungs lacerated in several places, the aortic arch almost completely transected." Her voice gets quieter. "She didn't have a chance."

Lassiter's been silent this whole time, but now he speaks up. "Any sign of poison, drugs, anything?" he asks.

Isles looks at him as though seeing him for the first time. "None so far," she says. "Why do you ask?"

Shawn sees Lassiter's darting glance in his direction. "No reason," Lassiter says.

"Any idea which injury came first?" Rizzoli asks.

"It's not typical to see two weapons used," Isles says. "Any of the injuries would have been immediately disabling. It's difficult to say."

Rizzoli frowns. "Guess," she says.

Isles draws herself up, her brow furrowing. "I don't guess," she replies primly.

Rizzoli makes a frustrated noise. "Honestly, Maura-"

"The bullet came first," Shawn says, and every gaze in the room swings toward him.

He puts a hand to his temple, ignoring Rizzoli's look of disbelief. "I'm sensing-" he starts. "I'm sensing that the killer was small."

"Small_._" Lassiter snorts. "That's helpful, Spencer."

"She was shot by someone who wasn't good with a gun," Shawn says, eyes closed. Isles may not guess, but he does. Because it doesn't make much sense to stab someone and then shoot them, does it? Rebecca was found in her foyer, so probably the killer shot her on sight. But the neck is a pretty narrow target, so Shawn is willing to bet that the killer was actually aiming for the heart and the kick of the gun threw off his or her aim.

The stab wounds on her chest - they look like they're all different depths. Some are quite shallow, Shawn can see. So the killer probably wasn't strong. And they're not slices, they're punctures: they were likely incurred after Rebecca was already on the ground. He studies the pattern. They're clustered on the left side of Rebecca's body more than the right, angled inward.

"The killer was little," Shawn reiterates. "Not all that strong. I'm sensing he or she weighed the same or less than Rebecca." He pauses. "The killer shot with the left hand. Stabbed with the right."

"How can you possibly-" Rizzoli turns toward Isles. "Is there anything to any of this?" she demands.

Isles is watching Shawn, her eyes narrowed. She looks at the body, then back at Shawn.

"There's no such thing as psychics," she says.

"I need to see the crime scene," Shawn replies.

Rizzoli frowns.

"Tomorrow," she says.


	4. Chapter 4

Carlton has done everything he could think to do.

He'd asked nicely. He'd bargained. He'd demanded. He had, finally, under duress, pleaded.

And still, the Chief said no.

"For the last time, Carlton," she'd said, exasperation edging her tone, "I am not signing off on a second two-hundred-dollar-a-night room when there is absolutely no reason you can't share one with Mr. Spencer."

_Oh, there's a reason, all right,_ Carlton had thought grimly.

"If O'Hara were going, we'd have two rooms," he pointed out.

"An excellent point." Vick clamped her lips together in what appeared to be an attempt at a patient smile. "But O'Hara's not going, Carlton."

"But Chief-Karen-"

He knew immediately that he had misspoken. Vick's expression had barely changed, but her eyes seemed to have morphed into chips of ice.

"No more, Carlton," she'd said, and walked away before he could say anything else.

So here he is now, following Spencer (who is pulling a rollerboard and wearing a ridiculous Transformers child's backpack) through the lobby of a Marriott and wondering what the hell he's going to do once they get to the room.

Three nights.

He's going to spend three nights with Spencer, and oh God if Spencer ever found out. If Spencer ever knew how Carlton thinks about him-or how Carlton feels about him-

"Hey, Lassie, you want any of this?" A candy bar has materialized in Spencer's hand. He tears the wrapper with his teeth and hits the elevator button with his free hand.

Carlton avoids Spencer's gaze. "No thanks."

"Come on." Spencer follows Carlton into the elevator. "You only had one burger. And who doesn't like Whatchamacallit?"

Carlton grunts.

Their room is at the very end of the hall on the fourth floor. Carlton unlocks the door. Pushes it open, deep breath. _Here we go._

"Dibs on window!" Spencer shoves past Carlton and tosses his backpack onto the bed, then flops down on his back next to it. "Ahh." He stretches his hands above his head.

Carlton edges into the room. Puts his suitcase on his own bed and fiddles with the zipper. He pulls out one thing after another, in no particular order, looking for nothing.

"I feel a little morgue-y," Spencer announces, bouncing to a sitting position. "You want to shower?" He leers at Carlton. "First, I mean."

Carlton fumbles with a suit jacket, almost drops it. He clears his throat. "No. Go ahead."

"Great." In one fluid movement, Spencer pulls off his shirt and tosses it on the floor.

Carlton's heart lurches into his throat. He stares. Can't help it. Thank God Spencer's busied himself sorting through handfuls of denim and plaid, because it takes Carlton a moment too long to wrench his gaze away.

Spencer appears not to have noticed. He sails by Carlton, clapping a hand on Carlton's shoulder as he passes. "Five minutes," he says, and then the bathroom door clicks shut.

Carlton lets out a breath. He hears Spencer turn the water on. Hears him humming, then the clatter of something dropped and Spencer's muffled curse.

Carlton drops the pants he's refolding and snatches the TV remote. He hits the Power button. Turns the volume up loud.

"Put it on Food Network." Spencer's voice, echoey from the bathroom.

"Shut up," Carlton mutters.

The water shuts off just as Carlton finishes smoothing the wrinkles out of his second suit. There are a couple minutes of silence, then the bathroom door opens and Spencer emerges in a cloud of steam. He's still shirtless, but he's wearing flannel pajama pants and there's a towel wrapped around his head.

"I give them five stars for water pressure alone." Spencer throws his jeans on the floor with his shirt and scrubs at his hair with the towel. "I feel like a human again." He tosses the towel over the desk chair.

Carlton reaches into the closet, yanks the plastic laundry bag out of its hanger clip, and thrusts it at Spencer without looking at him. "I don't feel like spending the next three days in a pigsty," he snaps.

"Okay, okay, jeez." Spencer shakes the bag open, stuffs his laundry in it. Carlton has to force himself to look away from the muscles shifting under his tanned skin. "Guess I should've let you have first shower, crankypants."

"I'm not a-" Carlton cuts himself off, seizes his pajamas, and stomps into the bathroom.

"Crankypants!" he hears as he shuts the door.

Carlton does feel better after the shower, but when he comes back out of the bathroom-

"Nice pajamas, Lassie!" Spencer crows. He's propped up on a pile of pillows, remote in hand, grinning broadly at Carlton.

Carlton looks down at himself. He's wearing regular old pajamas: dark blue, long-sleeved, button-down. He doesn't see anything wrong with them. "Spencer, you are annoying the crap out of me." Sees his empty bed and adds: "Give me my pillows."

Spencer waggles his eyebrows at Carlton. "We could share. Have you seen _Paul?_"

_God._ Carlton doesn't know which is more annoying: the taunt, or the fact that Spencer might not be kidding. "Spencer!"

"Okay, okay." Spencer pulls two of the pillows out from under him and tosses them to Carlton. "Now my neck cramps are your problem."

"Shut up, Spencer."

"You want to watch a movie?" Spencer's eyes are wide, guileless. "You can be the big spoon."

"No. I want to go to sleep."

"Come onnnnn." Wheedling now.

Carlton reaches for the remote. Spencer pulls it away. "Nuh huh."

A quick grab, and it's in Carlton's hand. He turns the television off. "We're meeting Rizzoli at the station at seven," he says firmly. "I need to go to sleep."

Spencer lets out a whuff of frustration. "Fine," he says grumpily.

He pulls the covers over his head and rolls over. Carlton hears him grumbling, his words muted by the bedding.

"Sleep," Carlton orders, and turns off the light.

From the darkness: the sound of a raspberry being blown. Then the rustling of Spencer's bedding, then stillness.

Carlton pulls the covers to his chin and stares into the darkness, listening to the sound of Spencer breathing. Light and huffy at first; after a few minutes, slow and even. Asleep. Just like that.

Asleep. Spencer. Five feet away.

And now it's just Carlton and his thoughts.

He closes his eyes, tries to relax. Even tries to match his breathing to Spencer's. But despite himself, his mind drifts.

He sees Spencer as easily as if the image was burned onto his retinas. Shoulders bare, that stupid leather necklace against his skin, curve of neck into collarbone. Beads of water at his hairline. Pajama pants slung low, snug under that hint of a paunch. His back: shadow of bone and flexing muscle. Those hands raking through wet hair.

Carlton drifts.

Spencer mutters something in his sleep and Carlton jolts. Realizes, to his horror, that he's hard; that his fingers are wrapped loosely around his cock.

He pulls his hand away fast, flattens his palm on the mattress. Wide awake now. He's appalled at himself.

Spencer stirs and Carlton holds his breath.

Agonizing minutes pass and Carlton feels Spencer's presence like hands on his body, every nerve alight, every proprioceptor firing.

Finally he slides out from under the covers, tiptoes into the bathroom. He closes the door as silently as he can, wincing at the infinitesimal click as it latches. In the dark, he draws up a handful of tissues. Stands against the wall and pushes his pajama pants out of the way.

He strokes himself slow and hard, his breath shallow, sweating from his effort to be quiet. When he comes, he quakes, but moves almost not at all.

* * *

Morning.

The alarm on his phone is buzzing, beeping, and he hears groans of protest. Whose?

"Shawn." The name is on his lips, past his lips, before he can stop it.

"Dude, that alarm is awful." Spencer sounds wide awake.

Carlton opens his eyes in time to see Spencer, now wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt, reach across the nightstand and take his phone. A second later, the beeping stops.

"Ugh, no wonder you're in a bad mood in the morning." Spencer is peering at the phone. He taps the screen a few times, replaces it on the nightstand. "You'll thank me later."

"How long have you been up?" Carlton pushes himself into a sitting position.

"Um." Spencer shrugs. "Hour, maybe two."

"It's six AM," Carlton points out.

"I know. I don't sleep much." Spencer kicks the covers aside and stands. "I've been waiting for you to get up so we can get breakfast. I'm starving."

They end up driving through McDonald's on the way to the station. Carlton orders coffee and picks at a hash brown; he watches Spencer eat two Egg McMuffins in about four bites.

Rizzoli is all business when they arrive, no small talk, which Carlton appreciates. By seven-thirty, they are driving in a caravan to Rebecca Xavier's townhouse. Spencer is uncharacteristically quiet. He perks up, though, when his phone rings. The ringtone is atrocious: a bubblegum pop song, all canned rhythm and chirping female vocals.

"Lassie, your phone," he says.

Carlton doesn't take his eyes off the road. "That's not my phone."

"Sure it is." Spencer holds up his own phone, which is decidedly silent. "I told you you'd thank me."

Carlton fumbles in his pocket for his phone, which is indeed ringing. "Spencer, what did you do?"

"Come on, Lassie. Who doesn't like _Party in the USA?_" Spencer grabs the phone out of Carlton's hand before Carlton can snatch it away.

He answers it. "Hi, Jules...no, he's driving. What's up?"

He listens, then frowns. Carlton can hear the bright buzz of O'Hara's voice, but can't make out any of her words.

"Really? For how long?" A pause. "Okay. Okay. I'll let him know." He hangs up.

"Give," Carlton snaps, hand out.

"Apparently," Spencer says, complying without complaint, "there's more to the story than we thought."

Carlton bites back his annoyance. "Oh?"

Spencer puts Carlton's phone down and picks up his own. "Rebecca Xavier was married."

Carlton frowns. "Married? Rizzoli never said anything about a husband."

"That's because they're estranged. For three years. She kept her name." Spencer doesn't look up from his phone. His thumbs tap the screen busily.

Carlton's eyebrows go up.

"We need to find the husband," he says.

"Way ahead of you," Spencer replies. "Bryce Montgomery. He's a CPA." He recites a Boston address and a phone number.

"How'd you know that?" If Spencer says "psychic vision," Carlton might hit him.

"Google." Spencer smiles brightly and holds up his phone.

Carlton is already calling Rizzoli. When she answers, he relays the information fast and hangs up.

"One of the other detectives will track him down and bring him in," he says. "We can question him as soon as today."

"Should probably check to see if Rebecca has a will, too," Spencer adds.

They've turned into a neighborhood of small pretty townhouses and cobblestone streets. Rizzoli parks in front of an end unit, indistinguishable from any of the others except for the pair of uniformed officers standing near the front steps and the crime scene tape across the door.

Rizzoli and Carlton flash their badges at the uniforms, and when they move to stop Spencer, Carlton reaches back and grabs him by the arm. "He's with me."

He pulls Spencer under the crime scene tape and through the front door and stops short.

The foyer is a mess. Furniture overturned, glass broken on the floor, and blood. Blood everywhere. Congealed puddles on the floor, splashes up the wall, splatters of arterial spray on the ceiling.

Rizzoli is pulling on gloves. "We swept it yesterday," she says, "but I figured you'd want to take a look before we release it."

Carlton takes the gloves she holds out and follows suit, but watches Spencer out of the corner of his eye.

Spencer is standing absolutely still, hands at his sides. Nothing moves except for his eyes. They're darting here, there, everywhere. Carlton has never really watched him at a crime scene, not closely, and he's...different.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them. Then reaches for the shoe covers near the door, pulls one quickly on each foot, and walks into the room.

He avoids the pools of dried blood, avoids the shards of glass - broken mirror, broken lamp-scattered across the floor. Picks his way through the foyer and turns down a hall.

"Spencer." Carlton moves to follow him, stopping also to pull on a pair of shoe covers.

Spencer's standing in the bedroom, still with that focused, narrow expression on his face. When Carlton comes to the doorway behind him, his eyes flicker and focus. "Hey, Lassie, do you have extra gloves?"

Carlton hands him a pair and Spencer puts them on. Reaches for a framed photo on the dresser.

"What?" Carlton can't resist asking. "What do you see?"

No reply. Carlton looks over his shoulder: a photo of Rebecca and another woman in ski hats and scarves, laughing against a backdrop of mountains. It had been a nice photo. All of the photos in the room had been nice photos. Had been.

Now, though, the glass on every frame is broken. There are slash marks through every photo of Rebecca.

"Spencer," Carlton says again, impatiently. "What do you have?"

At last, Spencer turns around. He stares at Carlton, his expression distracted.

"I don't know," he says at last.


	5. Chapter 5

It's not Bryce Montgomery.

Rizzoli had brought him in. Shawn watched Lassiter and Rizzoli questioning Rebecca Xavier's husband for less than thirty seconds and knew he was innocent. The poor guy was clearly distraught. He couldn't have looked less guilty.

While Lassiter is in the interrogation room, Shawn takes the opportunity to sneak away. A few choice words to the file clerk, and he's searching through Bryce Montgomery's record. Finds one arrest in the juvenile record. And one more name: Tabitha Helena Montgomery. Bryce's twin sister.

He hides in the bathroom and calls Gus.

"Shawn, I'm busy."

"Need you to look something up for me, buddy."

Shawn can practically hear Gus's frown. "What, they don't have the internet in Boston?"

"Come on," Shawn pleads. "I'm at the police station and there are only so many computers I can take over before they start asking questions. Plus, my phone is slow."

Gus huffs in exasperation. "Fine. What do you have?"

"Google this. Tabitha Helena Montgomery." He spells it, just to make sure Gus gets it.

There's a pause. "Oh wow."

"What? What?"

"She's wanted for murder, Shawn. There's an article here from Boston - she killed a guy." Gus pauses. "There were speculations that she was paid off."

He gives Shawn the details of the murder, briefly, and hangs up.

Okay. So Bryce's sister is a murderer. And maybe even a hit man (woman? Person, Shawn decides). Not great. Obviously, that made her a suspect.

"Thanks." Shawn hangs up.

He opens the door to the interrogation room without knocking. Lassiter's expression is pure annoyance, and Shawn is momentarily distracted because oh, he looks so _sexy_ with his sleeves rolled up like that.

Rizzoli shakes him out of it. "What do you think you're doing?" she snaps.

Shawn squeezes his eyes shut and points at Montgomery. "The spirits are telling me he's innocent," he says.

Rizzoli grabs Shawn's arm, her fingers biting into Shawn's skin. "Get out of here," she hisses.

"He's confused! Afraid! Afraid because he knows his sister is-" here Shawn pauses for dramatic effect, eyes still closed -"wanted for murder!"

Montgomery inhales sharply. "How did you know that?"

"She's-" Shawn furrows his brow. "I'm seeing a woman. She's scared. Beaten. Tabitha is stepping in front of her. Saving her from her husband...by killing him!"

Shawn hears Montgomery's chair scrape the floor and then topple. Hears Montgomery's hands slap the table.

"She didn't kill him," he shouts. "She didn't do anything - Tabby didn't do anything!"

Shawn opens his eyes and looks at Bryce Montgomery.

"Tabby," he says. Short for Tabitha.

Bryce's eyes. One hazel, one green. He's seen those eyes before.

Tabby Helena. A few rearrangements, a letter swapped out here and there, and -

"Oh no," Shawn says, and runs out the door.

He's back in the men's room in less than thirty seconds, phone to his ear. "Pick up, Jules. Pick up."

After four rings, she does. "O'Hara."

"Jules!" Thank God. "Bethany Abel. Look her up. Quick. Priors and fingerprints."

"Shawn, what's wrong? Why are you-"

He cuts her off. "Just look it up, Jules, please, it's important."

"Bethany Abel, isn't that the girl who pulled the dancer out of the stage?" Shawn hears keystrokes in the background. Juliet must be typing.

"Yes, yes, yes," Shawn says impatiently.

"Clean," Juliet says. "No priors. No fingerprints."

"Photos?"

"None."

"Shit," Shawn says. "Listen, Jules, you have to get her back into the station. And be careful."

"Why? Shawn, what's going on?"

"Because." Shawn takes a deep breath. "I think Bethany Abel isn't who she claims to be."

* * *

When Lassiter and Rizzoli get out of the interrogation room, Shawn seizes Lassiter's arm. "We have to get back to Santa Barbara," he says.

Lassiter looks at him, then at Shawn's hand on his arm. "What?" he says.

"Tabitha Helena. Tabby Helena." Shawn snatches Rizzoli's pad, ignoring her indignant "Hey!" He scribbles the name on it. "Bethany Abel. She's the same person, Lassie. She has to be."

"Bethany Abel? The girl from the sideshow?"

"Yes!" Shawn yells. "Same eyes as Bryce. Anagram name, why do they always do that? Lassie." He puts his hands on Lassiter's shoulders and stares into his eyes. "We have to go home."

* * *

It doesn't take much psychic spinning to convince Lassiter that they need to fly back to Santa Barbara right away. In fact, it pretty much just takes a phone call to Juliet.

"We've got Bethany Abel," she says, on speakerphone. "We've got the info from your guys in Boston and we're fingerprinting her now. I'll send the prints to the lab and have them run an analysis, compare them to Tabitha Montgomery's. She's not going anywhere, Shawn."

"Yeah," Shawn says, "but the question remains, doesn't it, why she was in Santa Barbara to begin with. Unless it was to murder Xavier."

"Why would she do that? There was nothing in it for her."

Shawn pauses, thinking. "But she's killed before. And maybe for money."

Lassiter jabs Shawn in the arm with an outstretched finger. "Bryce."

Shawn considers this for a moment. "If she's really taken up killing for hire, I hope she at least gave him a family rate."

"Be serious, Spencer," Lassiter says. "Bryce could have asked her to do it. If Xavier was dead, Rebecca stood to inherit his fortune. If Rebecca was dead, Bryce would be the next one in line to get the money, because he was still her husband. And Bryce knew that Tabitha had assumed a new identity. She could do the deed, he could pay her off, and she'd disappear - and he'd know she'd never turn on him, because he's family."

"The perfect crime." Juliet's voice sounds thoughtful and tinny through the speaker.

"They were different enough to look like random crimes," Lassiter says. "One's premeditated, obviously well-thought-out. The other one is a B&E, a rush job. They couldn't be more different." He's talking faster now, his tone edged with excitement.

"Wait." Shawn holds up a hand. "Wait. Something doesn't make sense."

"What are you talking about, Spencer, it makes perfect sense!" Lassiter's blue eyes are wide, incredulous.

"No." Shawn runs through the scene at the sideshow in his head.

_The red-haired dancer falling through the stage. Screaming. _"Bethany found the body."

"She didn't find the body," Juliet says. "The dancer found the body."

"The dancer fell on the body," Shawn corrects her. _Bethany launching herself onstage. Fast fast fast. Fast enough to tear her jeans and scrape her knee._ "Bethany found it, and-"

_fear concern shock horror_

No. Her expression had been real. She hadn't seen that body before.

Bethany didn't do it.

_Bethany talking to the manager, calming him down. Bethany talking to Lassiter. Bethany helping. Bethany reassuring._ She had reacted fast to an emergency. And afterwards, she was calm. No signs of guilt: no tics, no sweating, no stammering. No nervous glances toward the body.

It wasn't her.

So why was she at that scene?

"Jules," Shawn says, "we need to get back there. We need to look at Bethany Abel's life. Workplace, home, places she hangs out."

"I'll get a warrant," Juliet says immediately, and hangs up.

* * *

They're on the next flight back to Santa Barbara. It cost the department a little bit, but it's worth it, especially when Juliet calls Lassiter on their way to the airport and informs him that Bethany Abel's fingerprints do, in fact, match Tabitha Montgomery's. The FBI is on their way: they want her back in Boston, where she's wanted for murder.

"Do not let them take her," Lassiter instructs. "She's a suspect in our murder."

"She's a suspect in theirs, too," Juliet points out.

"Ours is newer!" Lassiter exclaims.

"Just get here fast, and it won't be a problem. Oh," Juliet adds, "and good call, Shawn." And hangs up.

Lassiter is quiet for most of the flight. After two hours: "Spencer."

Shawn yawns and looks up from the novel he bought at the airport. "Sup, Lassie."

A pause. "How do you do it?"

Shawn's heart picked up speed the second he heard the tone of Lassiter's voice, because he knew what was coming. He takes a deep breath now, trying to slow it down. "Do what?" Trying to keep his voice even.

"I know you're not psychic." Lassiter places his hands flat on his tray table. He's not looking at Shawn. The words are unyielding, but Shawn hears the silent question mark at the end of Lassiter's statement: _are you?_

Shawn closes his eyes. Maybe if he ignores Lassie, Lassie will let the question go.

He doesn't.

"Spencer." More insistently now. Shawn feels Lassiter nudge his arm. "Look at me."

It's easy to lie to Lassiter. That is, it's easy to lie to Lassiter when Gus and Juliet and Chief Vick are there, because then it's a show. It's a show, and he's the star; and more importantly, he's not just lying to Lassie, he's lying to everyone.

Sitting next to Lassie on a plane, sleeping next to him, noting the evidence in the hotel trash can of a nighttime visit from Madame Palm and her five daughters-that makes it significantly less easy to lie to Lassiter.

He opens his eyes and looks at Lassiter.

To Shawn's surprise, Lassiter's expression isn't interrogative or aggressive. His jaw isn't clenched. The angry-furrows aren't in his brow. Instead, he's looking at Shawn with calm, unassuming eyes. The only thing Shawn can read in Lassiter's face is curiosity. He really wants to know.

Damn you, Lassie.

Shawn's supposed to be the psychic, but Lassiter knows exactly how to play him.

"Um." Shawn looks down at his hands. "Maybe we can talk about this later."

In an instant, Lassiter's expression goes flat.

"Fine," he says.

Damn, damn, double damn. Shawn passes a hand over his face. He can't tell Lassiter; that's the one thing he absolutely cannot do. Lassiter would be furious. He'd tell Chief Vick in a heartbeat and not only would Shawn be out of a job, he'd also probably be in deep doggy doo-doo with the police. Lassiter would probably never speak to him again, which would be the worst part.

On the other hand, Shawn has a feeling that this is going to come between them like Dylan came between Brenda and Kelly, so maybe that's the worst part.

Is there a third hand? Because if there is, Shawn thinks that it's possible that Lassiter won't tell anyone. After all, Shawn not being psychic means that Shawn is just a really good detective, _and _he got a perfect score on that stupid detective exam fifteen years ago, so he would kind of be a threat. Not that Shawn wants to make Lassiter feel threatened, but that would, at least, ensure that Shawn's secret is safe.

Shawn considers each of the possibilities for a few moments. Makes a decision.

"Okay, you got me," he says. "I'm not psychic."

Lassiter looks at him. "What?"

"I said, I'm not psychic," Shawn says. His heart is pounding. He really hopes he's making the right decision. "Shh. Don't tell. I have a reputation to uphold."

There's a long pause. Shawn can't read Lassiter's expression at all. Then Lassiter takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "You realize you're defrauding the police."

"Yes." Shawn's heart sinks.

"You realize you're also defrauding the public and lying to your friends." Lassiter's voice is getting tighter. Anger edges his words.

"Some of them, yeah." Oh, this is really bad. Gus is going to kill him.

"You could be charged for this," Lassiter continues.

"I know."

Lassiter is silent for a full five minutes. Shawn is sweating. Finally: "Lassie? Um, can you say something?"

More silence. Then: "You don't have inside information."

"No."

"You aren't psychic."

"No."

"Then..." Lassiter swings an icy gaze toward Shawn. "How?"

Shawn hesitates. "I have an eidetic memory."

"What?" Lassiter frowns.

"Photographic memory," Shawn says. "My mom has it too. Henry...trained me."

Lassiter's frown deepens. "Trained you?" he says.

"Yeah. From when I was really little. He used to quiz me, make my cover my eyes. Then he'd ask me what I had seen." Shawn pauses. "Like the hat game. How many hats are in the room. There are six hats on this plane," he adds.

Lassiter's nostrils are flaring more than Judd Nelson's. "Show me," he says.

Shawn closes his eyes and points. "Flight attendant standing in the aisle, little airline hat. She has a green watch that's four minutes fast and a run in her hose on the left calf. Old guy across the aisle has a trucker hat that says _I'd Rather Be Fishing_, with fake red fly sewn onto the brim. Kid in front of the exit row is wearing a fleece hat with bear ears. When I went to the bathroom a while ago, he was playing Max and the Magic Marker on an iPad. College girl four rows back is wearing a red Indiana University ball cap. Her boyfriend is wearing an IU hat too, but his is white and really dirty. Incidentally, they were fighting when they got on the plane. And there's a chick in first class wearing one of those Newsies hats that Britney Spears used to wear. She's in her forties, but she wants everyone to think she's young and hip, so she's wearing slutty clothes and too much makeup. Fake gold necklaces, two of them. Bad move, in my opinion." Shawn opens his eyes.

Lassiter is staring at him, mouth slightly open, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

"You-" he starts, and breaks off. He closes his mouth, lips tightening. He's quiet for a long time.

"Why aren't you a detective?" he says at last.

Shawn snorts. "Please, Lassie. Have we met? I'd be a terrible detective."

"But you - that memory!"

"I'm distractible, whimsical, impulsive, and, as my dad likes to remind me, I never follow through with anything," Shawn says. "In other words: I'd be a terrible detective." He debates with himself for a moment, then decides to ask. "Are you going to tell the Chief?"

Lassiter turns front again, seeming to sag. He rubs the back of his neck. "I don't know," he says. "Let me think about it."

"Please don't put me out of a job." Shawn tries to make it sound light, but he isn't terribly successful: it comes out small and scared. This is the first time in his life that he's stuck with something for longer than six months and he likes it and he's good at it, and if he loses it he isn't sure what he'll do. Probably get a job at a Jamba Juice for two weeks, then spend two weeks folding shirts at Banana Republic, then two weeks as a barista at Starbucks...God, that's depressing.

"I should tell her." Lassiter sounds as though he's talking to himself. "She should know."

Shawn doesn't say anything. Can't. He's dismayed with himself - how could he have made such a bad decision? It was that look on Lassiter's face.

Lassiter looks at Shawn, his blue eyes narrow and shrewd. "You solve a lot of cases," he says.

Shawn struggles to keep his face neutral. "Yes."

"The Chief would probably have to fire you."

"Yes."

Lassiter falls silent then and just looks at Shawn, steady and assessing, until Shawn starts to feel squirmy and awkward.

"Say something," he says uncomfortably.

Lassiter takes a deep breath and looks away. "Who else knows?" he says.

At last, a question he can answer without thinking. "Gus. Henry. And you, now."

Shawn counts the seconds until Lassiter speaks again. Forty-seven.

"I'm not going to tell her," he says.

Shawn feels every muscle in his body slacken with relief. "Oh, thank God. I'm terrible at folding."

"What?"

"Nothing." Shawn grimaces. "But wh-"

"Don't ask why," Lassiter interrupts sharply. "I don't know and I don't want to think about it. Just...it's a gift horse. Don't look it in the mouth."

Shawn bites back a snappy "Yes, Detective!" and instead just says "Okay" in his meekest possible voice. "Thanks."

Lassiter grunts. Then he pulls out the book he brought - a biography of Ulysses S. Grant - and opens it. Shawn takes this as a sign that the conversation is over and tries to suppress the unsettled feeling in his stomach.

But Lassiter closes the book a few moments later. "How far back can you remember?" he asks abruptly.

Shawn's not quite sure where this is going. "What, do you mean can I remember my diapers being changed?"

"No," Lassiter snaps. "I mean can you remember little details very far back. Like - "

It's Shawn's turn to interrupt. "The first day we met - I mean the first real day, not that day Henry arrested me and you had that horrible mustache - you were wearing a blue-grey pinstriped suit. Your tie was navy and had blue and beige crisscrossy things. You had your badge on your right hip and your ID badge was clipped to your left lapel. Not a great picture. It looked like a mug shot. And in the third grade, Allison Mooneyham was wearing pink overall shorts and a white T-shirt with pink trim when she punched me in the face." He pauses, adds: "That happened to me a lot."

Lassiter shakes his head. "Unbelievable."

Shawn can't resist the urge to show off a little. "I can run through your entire tie collection, if you want."

Grimacing. "No. I believe you."

And because the hard part is over, because the big secret is out, Shawn feels like he just might be able to add in the little one. The one that includes the reason Shawn remembers Lassiter's suit from the day they met, and all his ties.

He thinks better of it. There have been enough revelations today.


	6. Chapter 6

"Bethany Abel," Carlton says, and Tabitha Montgomery cringes.

"Or should I say-" he draws out the sentence, savoring the moment - "Tabby Helena. Very clever."

She won't look at him, her green-hazel gaze focused on a scratch on the table that she's been picking at for the past few minutes.

"You're wanted for murder in Boston," Carlton says.

No response. Her nails scrape the wood.

"Change your identity, start a new life." Carlton drops into the chair across from her and stares at her, willing her to look at him. "You could have gotten away."

"I didn't kill Victor." Her voice toneless.

"So you knew him." Carlton leans forward, struggling to keep the excitement out of his voice. She wants to confess, this one. He can see it in her face.

"Of course I knew him, how could I not know him." Bethany scowls. "My idiot brother was so over the moon for Rebecca. He followed her father around like a puppy."

Carlton leans forward. "If he was so enamored of her, why were they estranged?"

Bethany rolls her eyes. "You think that was his idea?"

"It wasn't?"

"Please. He wanted nothing more than to reconcile with her. She wasn't having it. She wanted to find herself, or something. Entitled bullshit."

"I see." Carlton doesn't believe her, of course. If Bryce really wanted Rebecca back that badly, it had to be for the money. That was why he hired his sister to kill her and her father.

"I didn't kill him," Bethany repeats.

The door opens. Chief Vick sticks her head in the room.

"Detective," she says, "a word."

Carlton gets up without looking back at Bethany. She can steep in her own guilt. It'll make the rest of the questioning go that much more smoothly.

He follows Vick out, stopping when she does. She turns to face him, lips pulled tight.

"Detective O'Hara and Mr. Spencer are on their way back from Bethany Abel's apartment," she says.

Carlton huffs impatiently. "And?"

Chief Vick sighs. "I think we have a problem."

"What? Please tell me you found the murder weapon. She's as guilty as they come."

"Carlton." Vick glances through the window at Bethany, who is sitting quietly, having given up her assault on the table scratch. "She may be wanted for murder in Boston. But there's another player."

"Come on." Carlton stares at Vick, incredulous. How many complications can there be? If this requires another cross-country trip with Spencer -

He thinks about the night in the hotel room. Thinks about what could have happened had they stayed for as long as planned.

He forces himself to focus. Looks up at Vick. "And who is that?" he says tightly.

"Bethany's roommate. Emily Hernandez."

"Her roommate?" Carlton can't believe it - another hitch in closing this case. "What's the problem with her?"

"She's a pharmacy tech." Vick pauses. "And her mother owns the sideshow."

When Spencer and O'Hara arrive, Vick calls them all into her office. She writes _Victor Xavier_ and _Rebecca Xavier_ on the board and circles them. She connects them with a line.

"Bryce Montgomery was Rebecca's husband," O'Hara says. Vick writes Bryce's name and connects it to Rebecca's.

"Bethany Abel is Bryce's sister." O'Hara takes the marker from Vick and connects Bethany's name with Bryce's. Then she adds Emily's name and connects it to Bethany's. "Emily is Bethany's roommate."

Vick frowns at the board. "I see a train of people from Rebecca. Where's the connection to Xavier?"

O'Hara writes in one more name: Olivia Hernandez. She connects to it Emily's.

"Olivia Hernandez," O'Hara says. "Emily's mother. The owner of the sideshow."

Vick shakes her head. "I don't see the connection. It can't be coincidence."

"No." Spencer lets his hand fall. "Not a coincidence." He reaches into Guster's bag and produces a photocopied newspaper clipping. He hands it to Carlton.

It's an announcement of engagement, dated 1985. "Olivia Hernandez to wed real estate mogul," Carlton reads.

"Victor and Olivia were engaged," Spencer says. "But they never married. Victor called it off."

O'Hara draws a line connecting Olivia's name to Victor's. "Why?" she says.

"Not sure," Spencer says.

"And Emily." Vick reaches for Emily's file. "How does she fit in?"

"Well, she'd have access to heparin, for one thing," Spencer points out. "She worked at the pharmacy where Victor filled his prescriptions."

"But why would she kill Victor?" Carlton's brain is buzzing.

"Wait." Spencer holds up both hands. His eyes have glazed over. "Wait."

Carlton exhales impatiently. He knows Spencer has a process; knows, now, that Spencer's psychic "visions" are nothing more than rapid-fire, connect-the-dots logic. Still, it irritates him that Spencer has to interrupt the conversation at every possible opportunity and bring the spotlight back to himself.

"The dancers," Spencer says, as though to himself. "Emily was a dancer in the sideshow."

"We know that, Mr. Spencer," Vick says shortly. "O'Hara found a closetful of costumes."

"She wasn't there that day," Spencer murmurs. His eyes snap back into focus and he looks straight at Carlton. "She wasn't there the day Victor's body was found, Lassie. They had a substitute dancer-the Asian girl."

"That was the day Rebecca was murdered in Boston," O'Hara says slowly.

Carlton is already heading for the door. "We need to get Emily Hernandez and bring her in," he says.

* * *

She isn't hard to find.

They know, from the California BMV database, what Emily Hernandez looks like. They know where she works. And when Carlton and O'Hara approach the pharmacy counter where she's cashing out a customer, she looks at them utterly without surprise.

Carlton flashes his badge. "Emily Hernandez?" he says.

Pale blue eyes. "That's me," she says.

The customer gives Carlton a scared-rabbit look and scurries.

"I'm Detective Lassiter. We have a few questions for you regarding the death of Victor Xavier," Carlton says.

Her expression doesn't change. "Didn't know he was dead." She has blond hair, as straight and fine as cornsilk.

"He was murdered," O'Hara says, stepping forward. "We'd like you to accompany us to the station so we can ask you a few questions."

She is uncannily still. "Am I under arrest?"

Carlton can feel himself getting frustrated. "Should you be?" he snaps.

O'Hara interrupts. "No," she says, "but it would be very helpful if you'd cooperate."

Finally Emily blinks and looks away. "Sorry," she says. "I'm not feeling helpful today."

"Look." Carlton plants both hands on the counter. "If you don't cooperate-"

Emily turns her gaze on O'Hara.

"If I don't cooperate, absolutely nothing will happen," she says tightly. "In case I wasn't clear before, Detectives, I have no intention of going with you. Thank you for coming in. Have a pleasant day."

* * *

It galls Carlton beyond comprehension to have to dial Spencer's number. But O'Hara insisted, and although Carlton hates to admit it, he knows that Spencer has a way with people. Carlton never believed he was psychically reading them (and of course, now he knows for sure that he wasn't), but he has an uncanny knack for getting through to wackjobs.

Carlton scuffs his foot across the curb as the phone rings. When Spencer answers - a bright "Lassiepants!" - he straightens his stance.

"Spencer," he says. "What are you doing right now?"

There's a pause, which throws Carlton off a little. He's not used to Spencer hesitating before firing off a comeback. Then: "I'm naked in the tub, Lassie, want to join me?"

Carlton's stomach lurches and he is momentarily vertiginous. "No," he stammers after a moment. "I - we're at the pharmacy where Emily Hernandez works. We were - that is, we're -"

Out of nowhere, O'Hara's hand reaches out and snatches the phone. "Give me that," she snaps. "Shawn. We need you to come talk to Emily. She's refusing to talk to us and she won't come in for questioning."

She gives him the address and hangs up a moment later. Slaps the phone back into Carlton's hand, blue eyes reproachful.

"Say what you mean, Carlton," she says.

"What are you talking about?" Carlton's pulse quickens.

She looks at him a moment longer, then shakes her head. "Nothing," she says finally, then climbs back in the car to wait for Spencer.

By the time Spencer pulls up on his bike a half hour later, Carlton is sweating and surly. Spencer, as usual, looks fresh-faced and newly tousled; his smirk doesn't budge, even when Carlton demands to know what took him so long.

"There was traffic," Spencer explains. "And I wanted ice cream."

"Regardless." O'Hara steps in. "What do you need to know to interview her?"

But Spencer is already walking into the store.

It takes over thirty minutes for Spencer to come back outside. Emily isn't with him.

Carlton feels a flare of frustration. "Well?" he demands.

The expression on Spencer's face is strained; he doesn't quite meet Carlton's gaze. "Let's go," he says.

"Wait a minute, Shawn." O'Hara catches his arm. "Is she going to talk?"

Spencer looks at O'Hara's hand on his arm. Looks at O'Hara.

"We need to find her mother," he says.

* * *

Next day.

O'Hara stays at the station when Carlton heads to Emily's mother's house. He picks up Spencer on the way, because Spencer is remaining resolutely mute: he's refusing to tell anyone why finding Olivia is so important. He's not talking even now.

Normally Carlton would give anything to make Spencer shut the hell up, but his persistent silence is starting to become unnerving. After fifteen minutes: "Spencer."

Spencer starts. "Yeah?"

He can't believe what he's about to say. "What are you thinking?"

More silence. Spencer appears not to have heard him. He is on the verge of asking again when Spencer draws in a long breath and lets it out in a sigh.

"It's really stupid," he says.

Carlton exhales impatiently. "For God's sake, Spencer, what is it?"

"I didn't want to Jules to hear," Spencer says quietly.

Carlton hears Spencer's tone and knows something is wrong. He tightens his grip on the wheel. He may not be as smart as Spencer, may not be as intuitive, but he'd have to be a rock to miss the fact that Spencer is about to say something significant.

"Hear what?" he says, because he figures that's a safe question.

"What Emily said." Spencer pauses again. "And the reason we have to go talk to her mother."

He fiddles with his phone, turning it over in his hands. "I'm glad I'm not psychic," he says, and his voice sounds tight. He looks over at Carlton, then back to his phone. "Victor molested Emily."

Carlton takes in a fast breath. His first thought: motive. Emily had reason to kill Victor. But Rebecca? He can see no reason she would have killed Rebecca. His second thought: Spencer is not ready for this. He's seen more than a few cases like this - it's part of the job. But Spencer...

Spencer's lips are pressed together, and he looks a little...green.

"You all right?" Carlton asks, and he doesn't believe Spencer's nod. Without further interrogation, Carlton pulls off the highway and into a gas station. The moment the car stops, Spencer gets out and heads for the restroom.

He's gone a long time.

When he emerges, he is still pale, but he's no longer any shade of green. He slides into his seat without looking at Carlton.

"Thanks, buddy," he says. "I..."

Carlton waits. Watches Spencer. Knowing, now, that he isn't psychic, Carlton can finally see him. He sees his recklessness, his fear. One little confession, one page turned, and there: a human underneath.

Spencer is still fumbling. "I just...I never thought about-"

Carlton doesn't want to cut him off, but he can't stand it, can't stand watching Spencer struggle. "I understand," he says, and the look of gratitude that washes over Spencer's face almost undoes Carlton entirely.

He clears his throat. Starts the car. "So the mother knows about it," he says. He puts the car in reverse, backs up, pulls into the street.

"Yes." Spencer twists his hands together. "Emily told her when she was fifteen. Her mother didn't believe her."

Carlton shakes his head. "They always believe the boyfriend."

Spencer makes a little noise, as though he's about to say something else. He runs a hand across his face. Exhales loudly.

"She said it started when she was nine." His voice is quiet. He hasn't had a case like this. Carlton is sure of it. "Six years."

Carlton can't think of anything to say to that. Can't explain it away, can't even make a snide remark to distract Spencer from the awfulness of what Emily's told him. So he doesn't say anything. He just drives.

"He started coming into her room after Olivia was asleep." The words tumble out. "He raped her the third time he showed up and he kept doing it. Almost every week. Six years. Six years, Lassie." Spencer's hands are balled into fists he's breathing shallowly. "How can - how can - "

Carlton glances over, and Spencer is looking at him. Bewildered. Angry.

"How can someone do that?" he says finally.

Carlton remembers the first time he worked a case where a child was involved. He was more than happy to hand it off to Special Victims, because images of that little boy kept him up at night. Nightmares where he couldn't save the boy, where he saw him dragged shrieking into basements and alleyways. And he can't answer Spencer's question. Is fairly sure there is no answer.

His hand is off the steering wheel before he knows quite what he's doing. It hovers in the air for a split second, and then he lets it fall. Wraps his fingers around Spencer's knee and squeezes once, fast. Pulls away.

He can feel Spencer's gaze on him, can feel Spencer's shock. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Spencer's left hand uncurl, his fingers brushing the place on his jeans where Carlton's hand had been.

"Lassie..."

A question in Spencer's voice.

Would he have answered it, had the GPS not alerted them that their turn was coming up? Had the moment not been lost?

"_In one thousand feet, turn left at Euclid Avenue,"_ the robot-voice says. And Carlton comes back to himself.

"I'll do the talking," he says. "You - just - stay behind me and keep quiet." He hears his tone and it feels cruel.

Spencer's voice is quiet, small. "Sure," he says.

Carlton curls his fingers tighter around the steering wheel, feeling his pulse beat in his hands. Hates himself for offering Spencer consolation, then yanking it back. Why?

They pull into Olivia Hernandez's driveway in utter silence. Spencer is following directions and it's making Carlton feel disoriented and confused. He lets Carlton lead him up the walkway, no smart remarks, no dancing here and there, not a word.

The woman who answers the door is unmistakably Emily Hernandez's mother. Same pale blue eyes, same birdlike frame. She has Emily's white-blond hair, although hers has turned slightly ash and is cropped at her chin. Her makeup is perfectly applied.

"Olivia Hernandez?" Carlton says.

"Who's asking?" The blue eyes narrow.

"Detective Carlton Lassiter and Shawn Spencer." Carlton hopes Olivia doesn't catch Spencer's lack of title. He doesn't want to have to play that card - not yet, anyway. "We have a couple of questions about the death of Victor Xavier and were hoping you might be able to help us with them."

She studies them, and Carlton sees Emily in her stillness. After a moment, she moves aside.

"Come in," she says.

They follow her into a sitting room done in off-white and dusky rose, colors Victoria liked. This makes Carlton feel twitchy and unsettled, as though he wasn't feeling twitchy or unsettled enough.

"Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?" She is coolly gracious.

"No thank you," Carlton says, and Spencer, still wordless, shakes his head.

She perches on the couch across from them, spine straight, hands in her lap.

Carlton clears his throat, and why does he feel suddenly clumsy? He fumbles, can't find words. "We understand that you were engaged to Mr. Xavier."

"That's correct."

"We spoke with your daughter this afternoon." Carlton suddenly realizes that he doesn't know exactly what Emily said. That he is hardly able to quote the conversation back to Olivia, since he wasn't there.

No change in Olivia's expression. "And?" she says.

And Carlton is relieved when Spencer, at last, speaks up.

"She came back to train your dancers," he says, and Olivia looks at him as though she's just noticed him.

"Are you a detective?" she asks primly.

"No, ma'am," Spencer says, and Carlton hears some of the swagger back in his voice. "I'm the head psychic at the Santa Barbara Police Department."

Olivia's lips purse. "Oh, you are," she says. "Of course."

"Yes." Spencer pauses, and now Carlton almost feels him realign. "But," he adds, after a beat, "I'm not acting in that capacity today."

"Hmm." The sour-lemon expression doesn't change. "And in what capacity are you acting?"

Spencer leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands outstretched toward Olivia. Beseeching. "We just want to find out what happened to Mr. Xavier," he says. "And Emily - "

He turns his hands palm-up.

"Emily told me some things today."

Carlton hears the change in Spencer's tone and wonders: is he acting? Is this - the catch in his voice, the plea in his expression - real?

He doesn't get a chance to contemplate, though, because Olivia is leaning forward, she's interested, she's speaking.

"What?" Blue eyes alive now, anxious. "What did she say?"

Carlton is startled by the frankness of Spencer's words. "She said that Victor molested her."

And just like that, the porcelain veneer cracks. Shatters. Carlton sees Olivia's expression crumple just before she flees the room.

How does he do that? How does Spencer know just what to say, just how to _be_, to crawl under people's skin? How does he gauge whether to turn into a whirling dervish of faux-psychic bullcrap or a soft-eyed empath?

Right now, though, his lips are pinched. He's watching the doorway where Olivia left.

"I hope she comes back," he says quietly.

"She will," Carlton says, although he isn't sure.

She does.

Olivia appears a few minutes later, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I'm sorry," she says, and it's a very different woman than the one who answered the door ten minutes ago. She lowers herself onto the couch. Looks at Spencer.

"What else did she tell you?" she asks, and her expression is at once steady and fearful.

Spencer looks at his hands. "She said he had been..." Pause. "For six years."

"Did she tell you I didn't believe her?"

The candor of the words startles Carlton, and appears to startle Spencer as well. Olivia's eyes are bright with tears, but her gaze doesn't waver.

"I told her to stop telling stories," she continues. "I told her she had to stop lying or I'd send her away." She stops suddenly, gasps for breath. "I live with that every second of my life."

Carlton is silent and so is Spencer, because there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that they can say.

There is a long pause as Olivia regains composure. "She ran away," she says, her voice steady once more. "I tried to find her, but she didn't want to be found, and I didn't - " Raw shame, now, layered on guilt. "I didn't try hard enough."

"But she came back." Spencer's eyes stay on Olivia's.

Olivia takes a deep breath. "Yes. She came back."

"Why?"

"Because-" Olivia twists the tissue until it tears. "I found her. I asked her to reconcile. I asked her to come back because the show was going under and I needed her help."

"And she came."

"Yes."

"When?"

Olivia's gaze drifts to the left. "Oh, probably eighteen months, two years or so now."

"She did...what?"

"Trained the dancers," Olivia says, and Carlton sees her start to relax. "Balanced the books."

Despite himself, Carlton finds himself a little bit impressed by Spencer's interview. He doesn't try to play the psychic once, and his questions - concise, non-leading, asked in a tone that's at once gentle and assertive - are getting responses. Although he's certain Spencer will remember what Olivia says, Carlton makes mental notes: the dissolution of Olivia's engagement to Victor shortly after Emily ran away, Emily's subsequent enrollment in school to become a pharmacy tech, the strained relationship between Emily and Olivia upon her return. And, finally, that Olivia had been considering selling the sideshow.

To Victor.

When Olivia says this, she's looking at her hands, so she doesn't see the look that flashes across Spencer's face: that intense, focused expression, quickly replaced by his previous compassionate one.

And just as quickly, Spencer is wrapping it up. Carlton is momentarily confused - why is he calling a halt to the interview? They've barely been here a half hour.

But Olivia is standing, then, and Spencer is following her to the door, and Carlton has no choice but to follow.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Spencer grabs Carlton's arm.

"We have to get to Emily's. Right now," he says.

"Wh-" Carlton doesn't even get a chance to finish the word because Spencer is physically propelling him toward the car.

"I'll explain on the way over," he says. "Just-let's go. Now."

The apartment that Emily and Tabitha share is over a half hour away, so once they're on the highway, Carlton looks at Spencer.

"Well?" he says.

"Well what?"

Carlton huffs. Jesus. "Well, why are we going to Emily's?"

Spencer looks away. "Because I'm pretty sure she killed Victor. And Rebecca."

Carlton almost slams on the brakes in the middle of the freeway. "What?"

Spencer glances at him. "You thought it yourself. As soon as I told you what Victor did to Emily."

He can't deny that, but how did Spencer know? "What about Rebecca?"

"Didn't you hear what Olivia said? _Emily and Rebecca had a difficult relationship after that._ Rebecca probably hated Emily for what she'd said about her father, and undoubtedly Emily hated Rebecca for taking her father's side." Spencer rubs the back of his neck. "Remember Rebecca's apartment?"

Carlton mentally replays the scene in Rebecca's apartment. "Yes."

"The pictures in her bedroom." Spencer points at the air. "Glass broken, and Rebecca's face stabbed out in all of them." He drops his hand to his lap. "Except one. A family photo. An old one."

"Okay," Carlton says impatiently, "so what does that have to do with anything? Whoever killed Rebecca hated her. That should be obvious."

"Yeah, but that family photo had Rebecca in it, too. She was maybe ten or eleven. And Emily, same age, and Victor." He pauses. "It was Emily's face stabbed out in that one."

Now Carlton understands.

Spencer looks troubled. "I don't think we should have left her, Lassie."

* * *

"I need evidence, Spencer," Carlton hisses.

"I know," Spencer says. "And I'll get it."

They knock on Emily's door, and she answers, which surprises Carlton.

"You're here," she says.

"You know why," Spencer says.

And she nods. Moves aside.

Spencer walks into the second bedroom, and Emily and Carlton follow. He traces the perimeter of the room, not touching anything, just looking. He's frowning.

"Well?" Carlton says.

"Just..." Spencer's eyes narrow, and he drops to the floor. Reaches under the bedskirt and pulls out a shoebox.

Carlton reaches for the box. Opens it.

"Bingo," he says softly. "Looks like you're wrong, Spencer."

Inside the box are empty medicine bottles. Labeled insulin and heparin.

Spencer shakes his head. "Call the Chief," he says.

* * *

Vick arrives not thirty minutes later. She's got O'Hara with her.

Spencer looks at Emily. "Do you want to tell them?" he asks.

Emily's eyes fill and she shakes her head.

"Chief," Spencer says. "Can I talk to her?"

Vick glances at Carlton. Then: "Two minutes, Mr. Spencer."

Spencer stands up and Emily follows suit. They leave the room. A few minutes later, he comes back in.

"She's in the living room," he says. "Jules-"

"I'll go sit with her," O'Hara says immediately. She closes the door behind her.

Spencer looks at Carlton. He looks anxious, and Carlton realizes that he's worried. He thinks Carlton is going to call him out. Here, in front of Chief Vick.

He should. He should tell the Chief that Spencer is a fraud, nothing but a guy with really good observational skills taking the entire department for a ride.

He should, but he doesn't.

He looks straight at Spencer and gives him a tiny nod. And Spencer immediately throws himself into his schtick.

It's hard to watch, now that Carlton knows what's really going on, but it's less galling than it was before. When Spencer is "psychically pulled" toward the bed and reaches under it, Carlton actually almost smiles.

Of course, he loses that impulse as soon as Spencer says, "But Emily planted the bottles."

"What?" he snaps.

"Check 'em for fingerprints," Spencer says. "I'm sensing she wasn't thinking clearly. I'm sensing she didn't wear gloves."

"And what explanation do you have for that, Mr. Spencer?" Vick folds her arms. Waits.

"Here's what happened," Spencer says.

"Emily and her mother had this sideshow. Emily's father had died when Emily was small -" (How did he know that? Carlton wonders) "-and they didn't have much money left. It wasn't doing well."

Spencer pauses. "When Emily was seven or eight, Olivia met Victor Xavier. Rich developer. Victor had a daughter, Rebecca."

"And Olivia and Victor got involved," Vick supplies.

"Right." Spencer seems to droop a little. "And shortly after that, Victor..." He trails off. Looks at Carlton.

Carlton clears his throat. "Victor was molesting Emily," he says, as professional and clipped as he is capable of being.

Vick's expression changes little, but Carlton sees her lips tighten.

Now that the bad part is over, Spencer seems to have recovered. "No one believed Emily," he continues, "so she ran away at fifteen. Lived on her own for a while, then was taken in by a friend, who - " Spencer swallows hard "-paid her way to go to school to be a pharmacy tech."

The look on Spencer's face makes Carlton wonder what kind of "friend" Emily had made, living on her own at fifteen, who would have been willing to pay for school.

"She worked for a while, and then Olivia found her." Spencer leads them out of Tabitha's room and into Emily's. Points at the dance costumes in the closet. "She asked Emily to come back. The engagement had ended shortly after Emily ran away, and Olivia was barely keeping the show afloat. And Emily did." He plucks at the tulle of a tutu. "She brought the show around - managed money, trained the dancers, and everything was going fine. Until her mother told her that Victor was back in the picture and wanted to buy the show."

He looks away. "Emily felt like Victor had possessed every part of her life."

Vick, grimly: "So she killed him."

Spencer nods.

"But." Vick frowns. "How does Bethany Abel fit into this?"

"Emily found Rebecca in Boston," Spencer says. "She met Bethany through Rebecca."

Vick nods. "How?"

"She found out Rebecca was married. It's - " Spencer furrows his brow and puts a hand to his head. "It's not clear how she found Bryce, but it didn't take her long to find the sister, and figure out that Bethany - or should I say, Tabitha - was wanted for murder. So she got close to her, convinced her to come back to Santa Barbara. Change her identity."

Spencer is frowning. He glances at the door.

"I need to talk to Emily," he says.

Emily's on the couch next to O'Hara. Her hands are clenched in her lap; she won't meet anyone's eyes.

Spencer drops to the floor at her feet and sits cross-legged. "Hi, Emily."

No answer.

Spencer doesn't try to convince her he's psychic. All he says is, "I'm sorry."

Then he waits. Waits until she looks at him, and at last, asks, "Why?"

"Because I hate what happened to you," Spencer says.

Emily's eyes spill over. Tears drip onto her hands as she sits motionless, silent.

"You didn't mean to stab Victor, did you," Spencer says. It isn't a question.

Slowly, slowly, Emily shakes her head.

Carlton start to reach for his handcuffs and in a tiny, barely noticeable motion, Spencer flicks his hand in Carlton's direction. A _don't move_ gesture.

Carlton waits.

"Emily." Spencer scoots around so he is directly in front of her on the floor. "What happened that night? With Victor?"

Emily puts her face in her hands. And Spencer waits.

Finally:

"I thought he would get sick," Emily whispers. "I thought he would go into a coma. Or hit his head and bleed. I wanted him dead." She looks up suddenly, blue eyes fierce and furious. "I wanted him dead."

Spencer holds her gaze. "I know," he says.

"But he came to the show." Emily's shoulders sag. "He said he was buying the sideshow. He said we were moving to Boston. We'd be with Rebecca. He said - he said - " She starts to sob. "He said we were a _family."_

Spencer doesn't say anything, just waits until Emily can continue.

"He tried to...he said...when you're family, you..." And then she is bent over, hands fisted in her hair, face almost in her lap. "I couldn't," Carlton hears her say. "I couldn't do it again."

"You were defending yourself," Spencer murmurs, and Carlton's first instinct is to snap at him for leading Emily on, but then he remembers what they're talking about.

"I only wanted to stop him," Emily says, her voice muffled. "But he kept bleeding. There was so much blood."

Spencer reaches up. Puts a hand on Emily's arm.

"What about Rebecca?" he says.

Emily sits up and meets Spencer's gaze.

"She was going to be my sister." Her demeanor has changed in a split second. "But she hated me. She said I was a liar." She grabs Spencer's hands, curls her fingers into his skin. "I never lied."

"I know."

"I wanted to see her." Emily's tone is almost pleading. "I found her before. I made Bryce like me. I made Tabby like me."

Spencer leans toward her. "She wasn't happy to see you."

Emily shakes her head. "She screamed at me. Wanted me to get out. Said she never wanted to see me again." She looks at Carlton, and he is unnerved by the pain in her eyes. "So I came back with the gun."

"You shot her."

"Why shouldn't she hurt?" Emily grabs at her hair again. "Why shouldn't she hurt like me? Why me? _Why me and not her?"_

Spencer looks at Carlton, at Chief Vick. It's enough.

Chief Vick steps forward. She sits down on the couch next to Emily.

"Emily Hernandez," she says, and her voice is quiet and sad. "You are under arrest for the murders of Victor and Rebecca Xavier."

Emily puts her face in her hands and cries, and cries, and cries.


	7. Chapter 7

He can't get her out of his brain.

It's been three days and Emily Hernandez has crawled into Shawn's psyche and taken up residence. He can't do anything without seeing her anguished expression, without hearing her asking _why me and not her?_

And every time he closes his eyes, he sees that little blond girl in the photograph.

The department psychologist had assessed her. Said that she wasn't psychotic, wasn't delusional. He diagnosed her. Post-traumatic stress disorder.

Bethany Abel - Tabitha Montgomery, Shawn corrects himself - has been shipped back to Boston for arraignment of that long-ago murder in Boston. Shawn asked the psychologist why Emily had befriended with her in the first place and the answer made him feel even worse. Emily had tried desperately to get Rebecca to believe her when they were children, and even though Rebecca had rejected her over and over, she still wanted Rebecca as a sister. Still wanted to be close to her. Tabitha was the best way she could find.

As Shawn suspected, pinning the evidence on Tabitha was a last-ditch effort to save herself. It's sick and twisted and wrong and it's all Xavier's fault, and now Emily is in jail and Rebecca is dead and it's all wrong, wrong, wrong.

He always feels good when he catches the killer and solves the case. But that was before he knew that sometimes the victim isn't the victim, and sometimes the killer is right.

He tried to visit Emily twice, but she refused to see him either time. Refused to see anyone, even her mother.

The phone rings.

Shawn rolls over on the couch and contemplates ignoring the call. He doesn't feel like talking to anyone, not even Gus.

But it could be Jules or Lassiter with an update on Emily, so he answers it.

It's Lassiter.

"Spencer," he says, and Shawn knows immediately that something is wrong.

"What happened?" he says, and he feels his heart in his throat.

There's a long pause and Shawn wants to scream at Lassiter to hurry up and tell him already. And then he wants Lassiter to take it back, because Lassiter says the words he's been dreading. The words he knew in his heart he would hear.

"Emily Hernandez is dead," Lassiter says.

Shawn drops the phone.

No. No no no, she can't be dead, she can't be. No.

He can hear Lassiter's voice, tinny and small from the phone speaker. "Spencer. Spencer!"

He kicks the phone under the couch. Then he reaches for his jacket and leaves.

He stops by Gus's house, but the apartment is still and dark. He wishes he'd brought his phone.

He turns his bike down a familiar street. Henry is home, as Shawn knew he would be.

"What's eating you, kid?" he wants to know, as soon as he opens the door.

"I'm..." Shawn stuffs his hands in his pockets and shuffles into the living room. "Emily Hernandez. Died." He has trouble getting the words out.

"Emily Hernandez." Henry frowns. "That's the girl who killed that developer?"

Shawn sees Henry's indifference and is appalled: Emily was more than that. "It wasn't her fault," he says.

Henry arches an eyebrow. "Not her fault? Didn't she stab the guy? And kill some girl in Boston?" he asks.

"She had a good reason!" Shawn feels a surge of annoyance. "And now she's dead. And I…" He stops.

Henry doesn't miss a beat. "And?" he says.

Shawn grits his teeth. "And I...just wanted...to..."

"To what?" Henry clips the words. "Talk about it? There's nothing to talk about, Shawn. She's a murderer and she's dead, that's it."

"How can you say that?" Shawn turns on his father. "Like it's nothing?"

"It's not nothing," Henry says, and Shawn sees that the lines around his eyes and mouth have deepened, that his face looks older, somehow. "But you can't change it. What happened to her was terrible, but it's over."

Over for Emily, maybe. Not over for Shawn.

"I don't know why I even bothered coming over here," Shawn says. He's shaking with anger and frustration. "It's not like it made me feel any better."

"Trust me," Henry says. His tone has lost much of its bite; now he just sounds sad. He turns away from Shawn. "You're better off letting it go."

"Yeah." Shawn says bitterly. He reaches for the door handle. "I'll work on that."

He drives around aimlessly for a while. Parks his bike and wanders around on foot. By the time he gets back, he's calmer; no more racing thoughts. And Lassiter is sitting on the bench outside his apartment.

"Hi," he says.

Lassiter nods at him. "Hi."

Shawn sits down beside him. "How did she do it?" he asks.

"She had a piece of glass in the sole of her shoe." Lassiter's voice is measured, careful, belying no emotion. "She cut her own throat."

Shawn feels the news as though it was glass in his own throat. He swallows hard. Runs a hand across his lips.

"Okay," he says.

Shawn doesn't look at him, but he can see, out of the corner of his eye, Lassiter's jaw working. He hears Lassiter take a breath. Then: "I'm sorry."

Shawn lets out a sharp exhale. "What do you have to be sorry about?" He stands up and kicks at the leg of the bench, hard enough to make his toe hurt. Then he goes inside. He doesn't wait for Lassiter, doesn't expect him to follow, but he hears his door open and close gently.

Shawn paces. "I should never have started on this case," he says. "I should have kept my mouth shut."

"Not the right answer," Lassiter says. He's standing by the door, hands in his pockets, watching Shawn.

"She'd be alive."

"We have no way of knowing that."

Shawn turns on Lassiter. "What kind of bullshit answer is that!" he demands, and when Lassiter doesn't answer, Shawn feels something in him break. He walks straight toward Lassiter.

"I said what kind of _answer_ is that?" he says again, and when Lassiter still won't answer, Shawn puts both hands on Lassiter's chest and shoves him. Hard.

Lassiter's hands come out of his pockets as he stumbles. His back hits the wall.

"Spencer," Lassiter says, and is there a warning in his tone?

Shawn doesn't care. He is drowning in guilt.

He feels Lassiter's hand on his shoulder.

He starts to move away, but Lassiter's fingers tighten. Spinning Shawn around to face him. Shawn can't meet his eyes - looks, instead, at his tie, at the buttons of his shirt, at the gun he always keeps holstered at his side. Then Lassiter's other hand comes up, fingers wrapping around each of Shawn's upper arms.

"C'mere," he says gruffly.

Lassiter's arms are around him and his forehead is on Lassiter's shoulder, and he realizes that he's shaking because he's crying. Crying and hating himself because how weak could he be, to break like this?

But Lassie's hand is light on his back, and Shawn realizes, dimly, that Lassiter doesn't mind.

He takes a deep breath, and then another. Over and over until he is in control once more. He starts to pull away, and Lassiter's hands drop.

He rubs both hands over his eyes. "Sorry," he says thickly.

"Don't be."

"I'm okay." Shawn lifts his head and forces himself to look at Lassiter.

Lassiter's blue eyes are worried, his forehead creased. As soon as Shawn's gaze locks with his, though, he clears his throat and looks away.

"Tell me you have beer in that fridge," he says.

The silence between them is heavy and awkward, and with each passing moment, Shawn feels more conflicted. A week ago, he was boarding a plane with Lassiter and was over the moon about it. He was Andie and Lassie was Blane and by God, Boston was going to be their senior prom.

So why, a week later, does he suddenly feel so tired and sad and different?

It isn't Lassiter. He's still curt and awkward and cranky, same old Lassie. It's Shawn that changed. Because of the case. Because of Emily.

He can't even enjoy the fact that Lassiter is sitting on his couch. And he really would have preferred that his first time in Lassiter's arms be in a slightly different context. Like, for example, one _not_ involving hysterical sobbing.

"Lassie..."

"What?" Lassiter's response is too quick, as though he's been waiting for Shawn to speak.

Shawn realizes that he doesn't actually know what he intended to say. "Um." he says, "Did you know that Worf's favorite drink is prune juice?"

He hears Lassiter sigh and immediately feels terrible. But what can he say? _Lassie, I totally had a thing for you, but now all I can think about is a sad blond girl and how dismayed I am with humanity and it's pretty much killed my libido._

It does pique his interest a little - just a little - that Lassiter seems to be interested in how Shawn is feeling. He thinks about nestling against Lassiter on the plane, about Lassiter's hand on his thigh in the car. About the night in the hotel and the crumpled tissues in the trash can.

What if - that - had been about Shawn?

The thought makes him shiver, and he discovers that his libido hasn't been completely killed after all.

But crossing the chasm between them - a chasm filled with work and sorrow and what he's certain are Lassiter's worst inhibitions - seems an insurmountable task. The three feet between them seems like a thousand miles.

"Omicron Theta has two moons," Shawn says.

Lassiter appears not to hear him. He tries again. "Tellarites probably make good lawyers."

Lassiter sets his beer on the coffee table. "Spencer. Enough Star Trek."

"Nerd," Shawn says.

Lassiter rolls his eyes. "Speak for yourself."

"I am."

"Shawn," Lassiter says, and Shawn focuses. Lassiter's eyes are even bluer than normal.

There's a long pause, then: "You know you don't have to keep making jokes for my benefit."

Shawn looks at his hands. "I was all out of trivia anyway," he says. Sighs. "Lassie, I don't know how to handle this."

"I know," Lassiter says quietly.

Shawn picks at the label of the Hefeweizen. "How do you do this?" he asks, and he's humiliated and ashamed when his voice cracks.

Lassiter is still and silent.

Shawn sets his beer next to Lassiter's and puts his face in his hands. "I'm okay," he says, more for himself than for Lassiter. He's just not used to having so many feelings - all this sadness and guilt about Emily tangled up with the very confusing matter of wanting Lassiter, and encompassing everything, a growing certainty that Lassiter will never be his.

"Spencer," Lassiter says.

Shawn grunts to acknowledge that he's heard.

He feels Lassiter shift on the couch. Feels him scoot closer...closer...until he is next to Shawn. Not quite touching, but Shawn can feel the heat from his body.

"Shawn," Lassiter says, and his tone is suddenly very, very different.

Shawn takes his face out of his hands. Turns his head, just a little, just enough to look at Lassiter.

Lassiter's expression is unreadable. His jaw is set and tense, his brow furrowed. His pupils are dilated, blue swallowed by black. He looks at Shawn. Opens his mouth as though he is going to say something, then closes it again.

Shawn runs through every possible scenario. Makes a split-second decision. And plants his mouth solidly on Lassie's.

Shawn feels Lassiter freeze, feels his every muscle tense. Lassiter's lips are taut and dry beneath his. _Don't,_ he commands Lassiter silently. _Don't panic now_. When Lassiter starts to pull away, Shawn reaches up and clamps a hand firmly onto the back of Lassiter's neck.

As soon as he does, Lassiter kisses him back.

Shawn can't stop a low, desperate moan from escaping when Lassie leans into him, lips active, searching. He feels Lassiter's hand land on his back, light and uncertain, skimming over his shoulder. He kisses Lassiter harder and is rewarded: Lassiter kisses back just as hungrily.

And then Lassiter is pulling away. He rests his forehead against Shawn's, eyes closed. His pulse beats like a rabbit's against the heel of Shawn's hand.

"Ahh," he says, a half-groan. His breath is warm. "Spencer."

"You called me Shawn a second ago," Shawn points out breathlessly.

Lassiter sits back. Won't look at Shawn. "I can't do this with you."

The words hit Shawn like jabs to the gut: one two three four five six. He sucks air, fights the wave of fury that rises in his throat.

"Sorry," he says shortly. He stands up and walks back to his bedroom. "Lock the door behind you," he shouts back to Lassiter, and slams the door.


	8. Chapter 8

The sound of the door slamming echoes like a shot in Carlton's ears. His entire right side, so recently nestled against the solid warmth of Spencer's body, feels suddenly cold.

"Fuck," he says dismally.

What had just happened? What on _earth _had just happened?

He replays the last hour in his head. Carlton had been worried - horribly, nauseatingly worried - when Spencer hung up on him, and even more worried when he failed to answer the phone for forty-five minutes afterward. Worried enough to drive over Spencer's apartment and wait outside. When he saw Spencer, he'd had to bite back the words _You're okay_.

And why? Carlton can't figure out what happened in the last five days to make him feel so...protective. Of Spencer. It's unbelievably stupid: Spencer gets himself into the worst possible situations, and no one in their right mind would try to protect him.

And yet.

Spencer annoys the snot out of him most of the time, but Carlton would take that any day over this hollow-eyed specter. It makes Carlton crazy to see Spencer so wrecked by grief and guilt.

Crazy enough that when Spencer shoved him, he didn't shove back. Crazy enough to pull Spencer into his arms and let him cry.

Crazy enough to admit to himself, finally, how badly he wants Spencer.

_Not like this._ That was what he would've added, had Spencer not locked up and run. Spencer is desperate and heartbroken and vulnerable, and Carlton is certain that this is the reason for that kiss. No. Carlton doesn't want a random hookup motivated by grief and need. He wants them both to be clearheaded and cogent.

Right.

Carlton stands up. There is absolutely no sound from Spencer's bedroom, and the door remains firmly closed.

He can't take advantage of Spencer's emotional fragility. One or both of them will end up hurt. He can't go after Spencer.

But oh dear God, he wants to.

Because he knows, in his heart, that emotionally fragile Spencer is the only Spencer who will want him. He knows that once Spencer recovers - which he's bound to do quickly - he'll forget this whole thing. And Carlton will go back to his quiet, furious lust.

He paces.

Now or never. Now is wrong. Never is unbearable.

He feels like punching a wall, but instead, he lets himself out and locks the door behind him. Gets in his car and drives.

He finds himself at Tom Blair's Pub, keeping company with three fingers of scotch. He hasn't done this in a long time and it feels painful and raw, a fresh scrape under running water.

He gets drunk in a fast, businesslike way: it takes him less than ninety minutes to plow through eight shots. The cab ride is nauseating. He gets into the shower as soon as he gets home and stands with his palm flat against the cool tiles, the other hand wrapped around himself. Thinks of Spencer as he comes.

He falls into bed naked, still damp. He has the spins for a good twenty minutes before he passes out.

* * *

Carlton wakes up half-hoping that the blurry memories of the previous night somehow involve Spencer. His mouth tastes like sour cotton and his head is pounding. Eight AM.

"Ugh." Carlton winces; the light feels like knives in his eyes. He kicks the tangled sheets away and reaches for his phone.

It isn't there.

Holding his head with one hand, Carlton climbs out of bed and walks doubled-over to the bathroom. His pants are wadded on the floor. He searches the pockets, leaning against the counter for support. He finds his wallet - with his credit cards all present, thankfully - but no phone.

"Shit," he mumbles. The cab. It must be in the cab. Or at Tom Blair's Pub. Or -

Did he have his phone when he left Spencer's?

He's brushing his teeth in his bathrobe, trying to will his headache away, when the doorbell rings.

He stumbles to the door, toothbrush in hand. Opens it. Freezes.

It's Spencer.

Plaid button-down shirt. Scruffy: he hasn't shaved today. Tiny silver key on a chain around his neck. He's holding Lassiter's phone and looking nervous.

"I...you left your phone." Spencer hands Lassiter the phone. "I came by last night, but you weren't home. Sorry." He shoves his hands in his pockets, turns his back, and hops off the porch.

"Hey. Spencer."

He turns. He looks...what? Hopeful?

Carlton jerks his chin. "Come in, will you?"

Spencer hesitates. "I...Lassie..."

"Spencer." Carlton steps off the porch and takes Spencer by the arm. Gently. "I have a splitting headache. Will you just come inside?"

"Yeah. Okay. Sure." Spencer allows Carlton to lead him in the house.

"Five minutes." Carlton gestures at the bathrobe.

Spencer flushes and looks away. "Yeah."

When Carlton comes back out of his bedroom, Spencer is in the kitchen with one hand in a box of Chex. Coffee is brewing.

"I figured you wouldn't mind. Here," Spencer says, and tosses a Chex in Carlton's direction. Carlton swipes at it, managing only to bat it out of the air.

"You're supposed to catch it with your mouth," Spencer complains.

Carlton retrieves the lost cereal and flicks it into the sink. His head still hurts, and he can't think of a good comeback, so he stays quiet. The coffee's finished brewing. He pours a cup for Spencer and slides it across the counter, then pours one for himself.

Spencer's lowered himself into one of the barstools and is watching Carlton add cream and sugar to his coffee.

Finally he says "Lassie."

Carlton meets his eyes. The playful expression is gone, and now Spencer just looks tired.

"You invited me in, no promise of pancakes or omelets or frottage or anything. Why?"

Spencer drops his gaze to his coffee, and Carlton hears pain creep into his voice. "Twelve hours ago you wanted nothing to do with me."

Carlton stands up straighter. "It wasn't that."

"Yeah?" Spencer cocks his head to one side, eyes narrowed. "What was it, then? Interested but straight? Like guys but not interested? I've heard both of those before."

"Jesus, Spencer." Carlton turns away, exasperated.

"Well?" Spencer is out of his chair, coming around the counter to face Carlton squarely. "I have to know, Lassie." He pauses. "Carlton."

Oh, he had to have known what effect Carlton's name on Spencer's lips would have. Carlton sucks in his breath. They're so close - Carlton's back is against the island; Spencer's hands are on either side of Carlton's hips on the granite countertop. So close, but Spencer is pointedly not touching him at all.

"First question." Hazel eyes burn into Carlton's. "Into dudes: yes or no?"

Oh, no. No no no. "Spencer - " Carlton protests, but when he tries to move to one side, to escape, Spencer tightens his grip on the counter. He is surprisingly strong.

"Yes or no." Spencer isn't smiling.

Carlton exhales. "Spencer, I really don't think - " and Spencer rocks forward and bumps Lassiter hard with his hips.

"Lassie." He leans in, flush with Carlton stomach-hips-thighs. Carlton feels himself harden and wills it to stop. Spencer is staring up at him. "_Yes or no._"

"Yes, okay? Yes." The words are out before Carlton can stop them, and immediately Spencer steps back.

"Good," he says, walking back around the counter and picking up his coffee. All easy smiles and lax muscles, now. "If you lied to me about that, we would really have problems moving forward."

But Carlton can't respond, because the significance of what he's just said has just sunk in. Spencer asked, and he had answered yes. Under coercion, sure, but he hadn't said no. It makes him feel disoriented and uncomfortable. Lightheaded.

Or maybe that's the hangover. He sways.

"Oh boy." Spencer is at his side in less than a second, one arm around Carlton's waist. He drapes Carlton's arm across his shoulders and clamps his hand firmly around Carlton's wrist.

"Come on, big guy," he says.

He wrestles Carlton to the couch. "I'm fine, Spencer," Carlton mumbles, although he feels a little as though he's going to vomit.

Spencer is gone and back again, carrying a small trash can lined with a plastic bag. "Had to swipe it from the bedroom," he says. "Hope that was okay."

"Sure." Carlton is suddenly exhausted. He puts his forehead on the armrest, looking up only when he feels Spencer's hands on his legs. Spencer pulls Carlton's feet up to the couch and drapes the throw across Carlton's body.

From his position on the couch, Carlton hears Spencer in the kitchen. Fridge opening. Water running. Ice clanking.

He's back with a pitcher of Gatorade. "This'll cure what ails ya," he says. He sets the pitcher on the end table by Carlton's head. Lifts Carlton's legs and drops to the couch beneath them, then puts Carlton's feet in his lap.

"That must have been quite a bender," he says.

Carlton makes a face. "Let's not talk about it."

"Sure." Spencer smooths Carlton's pant leg. His hands are warm on Carlton's shins.

"Second question," Spencer says after a moment, and Carlton throws an arm over his face.

"Now what?" he groans.

"Here's the thing, Lassie," Spencer says seriously. "I was feeling all sorry for myself yesterday because I'm Max Fischer and you're Rosemary Cross."

It's like he's speaking a different language when he says things like that. "Spencer, I don't know what you mean."

"I like you and you don't like me," Spencer explains. He rolls his eyes. "Don't you watch movies?"

"I never said - " Carlton starts to protest.

"Shh." Spencer pinches Carlton's toe. "Let me talk. I don't think you heard me. I _like you._"

Carlton looks away. "Spencer, you don't know what you're talking about."

"Now why would you say that?" Wounded pout.

"Come on," Carlton says. "You belittle and undermine me almost constantly. You're insulting. You try as hard as you can to irritate me."

"Pfft." Spencer rolls his eyes. "Yeah. Because I like you!"

"You think I'm a joke."

"Hey." Spencer's roving hands fall still and the smirk immediately drops off his face. "I may make fun of you a little bit, but I have never thought that you're a joke."

Carlton snorts.

Spencer leans toward him. "Are you kidding me? You're smart and tough and cool under pressure. Not to mention super sexy. You're Mike Lowrey. You're Clarice Starling, Julianne Moore version. You're John McClane with hair."

Carlton's stomach knots, but Spencer is still talking. "You may be a little bit uptight, and okay, you get mad kind of easily at little stuff, but you're what every detective should be. You're amazing, Lassie."

There isn't the slightest hint of mockery in Spencer's tone. And not one word of his little speech sounds contrived.

Is it possible?

After all this time thinking that Spencer was laughing at him, was he really just trying to - what? Get Carlton's attention?

"So." Spencer pats Carlton's shin, all business once more. "As I was saying: second question. Interested. Yes or no?"

"Interested?" Carlton's heart pounds in his throat.

"In me, Lassie." Spencer looks as though he's bracing himself.

Carlton sits up, pulling the throw out from under him and tossing it to one side. He runs his hand over his face. "Ah. Spencer."

Spencer visibly bristles. "Okay," he says.

"Stop doing that," Carlton says.

"What?" Spencer says sharply. "Replying?"

"Getting pissed off before I have a chance to explain," Carlton says, just as sharply.

"Explain what?" Spencer is scowling, his eyebrows drawn down over his eyes. "It's a yes or no question. Shouldn't require a lot of exposition."

"Will you just - " Carlton breaks off. "Look. This is kind of...new...for me, okay?" He takes a deep breath. "I just need to...process a little."

At that, Spencer's demeanor changes. Softens. "Oh," he says. He looks guilty. "Sorry."

Carlton looks away. "No problem," he says.

There's a long, uncomfortable silence. Carlton feels sweaty and ill.

"But you've been with a guy before." Carlton hears the question in Spencer's voice.

Carlton clears his throat. "Yeah," he says, and the honesty tastes harsh and metallic.

"I'm sorry," Spencer says again. "I just assumed - I shouldn't have assumed."

Carlton sees the distress on his face. He sighs and looks forward again.

"I am..." Pause. As professionally as he can muster: "...attracted to you."

Spencer doesn't answer. Then he says, quietly, "That's nice to know."

Carefully, deliberately, he moves down the couch next to Carlton.

Carlton's heart rate picks up. He forces himself to breathe evenly, slowly.

"Is this okay?" Spencer asks, and Carlton swallows hard. Nods.

"Do you have anything planned for today?"

Carlton shakes his head. He can't quite speak. Spencer is next to him, Spencer knows how he feels. Spencer wants him.

It's a lot to digest, and he feels skittish and jittery and scared.

Spencer reaches forward, picks up the remote, and turns on the TV. He puts a hand on Carlton's shoulder, gently pushing him backwards. Then he lifts Carlton's arm and ducks underneath it, settling against him.

"Okay?" he asks again, angling his head to meet Carlton's gaze.

Carlton's pulse is starting to slow. Spencer isn't pushing any more, isn't demanding. He starts to relax.

"Yeah," he says.

Spencer leans his head against Carlton's shoulder. "Okay," he says.

They make it through two episodes of _Cops_ before Carlton starts to get sleepy. Spencer apparently senses it, because he pulls away and sits up. Grabs one of the pillows. Moves to the other end of the couch.

He puts the pillow in his lap and pats it. "Here," he says, and Carlton decides he's too tired to think, or wonder, or second-guess. He stretches out, pulls the throw over himself, and puts his head on the pillow in Spencer's lap.

As comfortable as Sunday morning.

Spencer's fingers rake through Carlton's hair, over his neck, across his shoulders. Slow and gentle. Carlton's eyes start to slip shut.

The scotch from the previous night has taken its toll. Carlton dozes fitfully, head on Spencer's lap, and when he finally wakes up, he feels leaden and slow.

"Mmgh." Carlton rubs his eyes.

"Hi," Spencer says. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." Carlton's headache is gone, and he's no longer nauseated. "What time is it?"

"Eleven-thirty." Spencer brushes his fingertips over Carlton's forehead. "Are you hungry? 'Cause I am."

Carlton realizes he is ravenous. "Yeah."

"Good. I ordered pizza." Spencer waves his phone. "Domino's app."

Carlton sits up and stretches. "What kind?"

"Pineapple and ham for me, supreme with no green peppers for you." When Carlton's eyebrows go up, he shrugs.

"I may not be psychic, but I pay attention," he says.

They eat in silence when the pizza arrives, and then they watch television.

For the next six hours.

Spencer doesn't move close to Carlton. He doesn't try to grab him or grope him or kiss him. All he does is flip channels, make snarky remarks at whatever show they're watching, and periodically get up to retrieve another glass of water or grab handfuls of Chex. After the first half hour, Carlton stops wondering if Spencer is going to try to talk about anything.

When the sun starts to go down, Spencer stretches and stands. "Thanks, Lassie," he says.

Carlton looks up at him. "For what?"

Spencer shrugs. "Just...thanks." He picks his keys up from the coffee table and shifts from one foot to the other. He doesn't quite meet Carlton's eye. "And let me know...I mean, I'm here." He toys with the keys. "Whenever you figure stuff out. See you tomorrow, Lass."

He squeezes Carlton's shoulder once, quickly, and leaves.


	9. Chapter 9

It makes a lot more sense, now.

Shawn stuffs his hands in his pockets as he shuffles down the boardwalk. He no longer thinks that Lassiter dislikes him. In fact, he's pretty sure that Lassiter wants him as much as he wants Lassiter. The problem, then, is that Lassie is clearly freaking out.

What to do about this?

Shawn tried to be as nonthreatening as possible after Lassiter dropped the "this is new" bombshell. Tried to be reassuring - not an easy task - and gentle and even slow-moving. Lassie was as jittery as Jessie Spano on caffeine pills until Shawn made it clear that he wasn't going to push the issue.

The nap was nice, though.

He replays the image of Lassie asleep in his lap over and over. The feeling of Lassiter's skin beneath his fingers. The long, steady breaths Lassiter took in his sleep. The way he tucked one hand under Shawn's leg and pulled himself closer, curling against Shawn like a long-limbed kitten.

The adorable way he yawned and rolled over and stretched when he woke up. Sleepy-eyed Lassie...yes, he'll take more, please.

He carries the day with him. It'll be the one thing that makes him feel better after tomorrow's meeting with Woody. After he says goodbye to Emily.

Shawn sits on the bench outside the office and stretches his legs toward the ocean. He sits there for a long time.

* * *

Next day, and Shawn is anxious. He slept poorly and woke up with his neck and head aching. He can't settle down: by noon, he's cleaned the entire office, done all his laundry, reorganized Gus's desk, and eaten four Fruit by the Foots. He shows up a full half hour early at the morgue. Waits. Impatiently.

"Shawn, my good man!" Woody is his usual cheerful self.

"Woody, hi." Shawn forces a smile and declines to shake Woody's hand, which is spotted with blood. "What's the word?"

"On little Miss Hernandez?" Woody's expression falters a little. "Such a shame."

"I know." Shawn wipes his palms on his jeans and takes a deep breath. "So..."

Woody shrugs. "Exactly what we thought," he says. "She bled out from the wound in her neck. Went straight through the external carotid. She knew what she was doing."

She made sure there would be no chance she'd survive, in other words.

Shawn shoves his hands in his pockets. "Can I see her?"

"Sure." Woody's lips thin a little. "If you're sure..." He trails off, a question mark in his tone.

"I'll be okay," Shawn says. Tries to sound reassuring.

He steadies himself before he pushes the door open. Woody doesn't follow him.

And oh, he isn't ready, but there she is on the table. Under the spotlight. Draped in a sheet, pale and still and silent, hadn't he just talked to her three days ago?

He approaches slowly, each step more difficult than the last. He feels as though he's wading through molasses.

It was the hardest interview he'd ever done, in the break room of the pharmacy with Emily. Because as soon as he'd asked her about Victor Xavier, he'd known that something was wrong. He'd seen the way her face changed when Shawn said Victor's name. Fear hate panic shame, all in one flash of pale blue eyes. And at that moment, Shawn knew.

He looks down at the woman on the table. She's his age. His age, but so much older, and had so much less. He thinks of everything she had stolen from her. Hears her voice in his head.

_He came to my room at night, _she'd said. Her face had been entirely devoid of expression. _At first, he just wanted to...talk. Then he touched me. _A downward flicker of her blue eyes. _Then...other things._

Nine years old.

Woody, bless him, has sewn up the gash in her neck with surgical precision. Her hair is clean, still wet, clinging to the metal table. The sheet is pulled up high enough that Shawn can't see the Y-incision he knows is there.

He touches her hair, her cheek. Her skin feels cold and heavy and so very, very dead.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, Emily."

And what if?

What if he hadn't gotten involved? What if he'd never investigated Bethany, if they'd never found Emily at all? What if she'd gotten away with it?

Victor would be dead and she'd be alive.

But Shawn found her. And Shawn talked to her and she had practically confessed. They already had the means and opportunity. She provided the motive. And so they caught her, and Victor is dead and so is she.

He weighs the what if and the what happened, the hypothetical and the actual. Tries to make it right in his head. He can't do it. If he had never found her, Victor would be dead and she'd be alive.

But that wouldn't have been right either, would it?

Would it?

He washes his hands before he leaves, but he still feels death clinging to his skin. Woody hasn't reappeared and he's grateful.

He goes home and showers. He feels like he's going crazy, all these thoughts and scenarios pinging around in his head like Superballs, and no way to let them out. He can't be alone with himself for any longer.

So he's really, really glad when Lassiter answers the phone.


	10. Chapter 10

"Spencer?"

Carlton answers, feeling at once confused and annoyed. Spencer had left last night so abruptly, and then...nothing. He didn't show up at the station all day. He didn't call Carlton after they spent the whole damn day together. He didn't even check in on Emily's case. It's nine o'clock at night and why is he calling now?

"Hey, Lassie." Spencer's voice sounds thin and anxious. "Whatcha doin?"

"I'm..." Carlton considers the paperwork splashed across his kitchen table. Weighs it against Spencer. "Nothing."

"Would it be wearing out my welcome if I came over? Not to sound too needy, but I could use..." He clears his throat. "A friendly face."

"Sure." Carlton frowns. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's fine. I mean, yes. See you soon, Lassie." And Spencer hangs up.

Carlton looks at his phone. Spencer sounded weird. Unsettled. And definitely unhappy. What's eating him? The case, surely, but they haven't had any news. Nothing's different.

Except...

Suddenly Carlton remembers. O'Hara's words after Emily's body had arrived at the morgue._ "Woody is out of town. We won't get her autopsy results until Monday at the earliest."_

Oh.

Oh, Spencer.

He went to see Emily. Carlton couldn't be more sure of it if Spencer had told him himself.

His suspicion is confirmed when Spencer shows up on his doorstep a half hour later.

"Hi, Lassie," Spencer says. His smile makes Carlton wonder how anyone believes anything Spencer says, ever.

"You saw her," Carlton says, and it isn't a question. He moves aside so Spencer can come in. Closes the door and locks it.

"Yeah." The brighter light of the kitchen makes Spencer appear hollow-eyed and pale. "I'm not gonna lie, Lassie. I feel pretty bad."

He sits in one of the barstools and looks at his hands. "Really bad, actually," he adds reflectively.

Carlton moves to stand beside him. He hesitates, then puts a hand on the back of Spencer's chair.

"What happened to her - " he says. "What she did. You couldn't have known." Pause. "You aren't psychic."

Spencer bows his head. "I know, Lassie," he says quietly. "If I did...I would be able to fix things. Change them. But this - "

He turns his hands palm-upward.

"How do you fix this, Lassie?" he asks, his voice raw. "How do you extract any justification, redemption, any other -tion?"

Carlton has no answer for him.

He moves his hand from the back of the chair to Spencer's shoulder and pulls Spencer against him.

Spencer's hands come up and he clings to Carlton, fingertips digging into his waist, face against Carlton's ribs. Carlton feels him breathing: long deep breaths, the breaths of someone trying to stay an onslaught of emotion.

Carlton didn't want to get involved when Spencer was hurting. But maybe - maybe that's what Spencer needs.

So Carlton pulls away. Leans toward Spencer.

Kisses him squarely on the mouth.

No surprise, this time. No hesitancy, no uncertainty. Spencer reaches up and clamps both hands on Carlton's upper arms, dragging him closer. He's kissing him hard, furiously, hungrily, and Carlton feels the heat in the pit of his stomach start to move downward.

And now Spencer is on his feet, propelling Carlton backwards. Carlton's legs hit the couch and he sits down hard.

"Sorry," Spencer says breathlessly, but his hands are on Carlton's shoulders and he's shoving Carlton flat onto his back on the couch, and he doesn't really appear to be sorry at all.

His mouth descends onto Carlton's once more and he swings a leg up and over Carlton and straddles him, one leg bent beneath him on the couch, the other foot on the floor. Sudden shock of pleasure as he rolls himself against Carlton's rapidly-hardening erection.

Carlton lets out an involuntary groan, his hips jerking upwards.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Spencer mumbles against Carlton's mouth.

Carlton feels Spencer's hands at his waist. Smooth quick motions, unbuckling Carlton's belt.

Carlton falls still. "Spencer - " he says.

Spencer kisses him hard. "Shut up," he growls, and Carlton does.

Cold air as Spencer shoves Carlton's pants and boxers aside. He kisses him once more, the _shut up_ implied, and a half second later, Spencer's mouth is on him.

It's as though the wind has been knocked out of him. Carlton arches up, hands clamping onto Spencer's shoulders. There's nothing subtle about Spencer's technique: his mouth works briskly, tongue swirling, and Carlton feels the vibration of Spencer's moans. His vision narrows. _Shawn._

A moment more and he comes. Harder than he has in years. He is dimly aware of Spencer swallowing, mouth soft and sucking. His hands are clenched in Spencer's shirt.

"Jesus," he breathes.

Spencer pulls away, tugging Carlton's shorts and pants up. He wipes his mouth on his T-shirt and hefts Carlton's legs.

"Move," he says, dropping onto the couch beside Carlton and putting Carlton's feet in his lap. Just like yesterday. Only infinitely different.

Eyes closed, Carlton tries to slow his breathing. He is shaky, light-headed; his limbs feel loose.

"I feel better." Spencer pats Carlton's leg. "Thanks, Lassie."

Carlton opens his eyes and looks at Spencer. He can't help it. He laughs. Because Spencer looks so incredibly sexy, all swollen lips and heavy eyelids, and he just made Carlton come harder than maybe he has in his entire life, and he's the one saying thanks.

"Oh, Spencer," he says, stretching out a hand. "C'mere."

Carlton's couch is barely big enough for both of them, but Spencer makes it work. He wedges himself so far into the couch that he's half under the back cushions.

"Guess this means you can stand me," Spencer says.

Carlton puts a hand over Spencer's face. "Shush. I can stand you."

Spencer's voice is muffled against Carlton's palm. "Do you like me?"

"Don't push it," Carlton says.

"You totally do." Spencer's fingers close over Carlton's wrist and he pulls Carlton's hand away. Props himself on his elbow and looks down at Carlton. "You like me."

"No I don't." Carlton doesn't mean to smile but he smiles anyway, because Spencer's expression is so earnest and certain. And Carlton feels that weird little twinge, that protective affection that has only amplified in the past five days.

"Do too." Spencer brushes his lips lightly over Carlton's.

"I'm a grown man, Spencer," Carlton says, and he puts his hand on Spencer's back. "Don't insult my integrity."

Spencer walks his fingers up Carlton's chest. "Admit you like me. I'm Leia and you're Luke."

Carlton catches Spencer's hand. "Luke and Leia ended up being twins."

"Oh yeah." Spencer makes a face. "Okay, well, I'm Leia and you're - "

"Spencer." Carlton interrupts him. "In no scenario are you Leia."

"Fine, fine, fine." Exasperated huff. "I'm Alicia Silverstone and you're Paul Rudd."

"Spencer, that's disappointing even for you." Carlton considers. "Although, actually, not all that far off."

"If you're talking about my assortment of feather-topped pens, I'll have you know that those are legitimate collector's items." Spencer shifts on the couch until he's lying mostly on top of Carlton. "We just haven't gotten to the end of the movie yet. Where you realize you like me."

"I'm not making movie comparisons, Spencer," Carlton says.

"I like you," Spencer offers.

"Your mistake," Carlton says.

"On the contrary," Spencer says. He catches Carlton's earlobe in his teeth. "I 'hink it's a measure of my good judgment."

"Whatever."

"Hm." Spencer pouts. And Carlton sees that he might be a little bit serious, after all.

Spencer puts his head onto Carlton's shoulder, but has to move in moments: Carlton's arm starts to go numb, and the couch really is too small for both of them.

It's a little awkward, then. Spencer talks too much and Carlton, almost not at all. Spencer doesn't ask for any sexual reciprocation, and in fact, when Carlton tries, he laughs and ducks out of reach. They end up watching Top Chef instead.

"Thanks for hanging out with me, Lassie," Spencer says. He's got both feet on the couch and is curled against Carlton, his weight a heavy comfort at Carlton's side. Carlton's arm is around his shoulders. Like a date.

It strikes him, suddenly, that what they're doing is exactly that.

Carlton feels a twinge of unease. He's been on maybe three first dates in the past year, and not one of them went on to a second. Granted, they were all rebound-from-Gabriel dates with women, so maybe he shouldn't count them. Still, he doesn't have a great relationship track record, and for all Spencer's irritating quirks, Carlton likes him. He really doesn't want to mess this up.

"I didn't have anything better to do anyway," Carlton says.

Spencer pulls away and looks at him critically. "Lassie, was that a joke?"

Carlton focuses on the TV. "Maybe," he says.

Spencer sits up. "I was totally right."

"Huh?"

"You _are _into me!" Spencer jabs Carlton's upper arm with his forefinger. "You are straight up, nerd-and-prom-queen into me. How long have you wanted to get me in the sack?"

And this - this right here - this is why Spencer drives Carlton crazy. That he can intuit every damn thought that goes through Carlton's head, and then that he just _announces_ them...it makes Carlton feel unbalanced and vulnerable. Carlton stands up and goes into the kitchen. "Spencer, you're being ridiculous."

Spencer pauses, tilting his head to one side thoughtfully. "Probably," he concedes. "I'm right, though, aren't I?"

Carlton can feel Spencer's eyes on him. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Why?"

"Because I don't." Carlton sets a Sprite in front of Spencer. Slams it down, really.

"Ooh." Spencer's hazel eyes are wide. "Lassie. You're mad."

Carlton drops onto the couch. "I'm not mad," he says, "but if you keep bugging me, I will be."

"Okay."

Spencer looks thoughtful. "If you're mad, will you stop talking to me?"

Carlton snorts. "Like you'd let that happen."

"Will you make me leave?"

"Probably."

"Hm." Spencer reaches for the Sprite and pops the tab. "Okay. I won't bug you."

But something has changed, and Carlton feels it. After the Top Chef episode ends, Spencer gets up.

"Thanks for the company," he says.

It's after midnight, and Carlton had assumed Spencer would stay. But he's reaching for his jacket. Shrugging into it. Digging in his pocket for his keys.

He stoops and plants a kiss on the top of Carlton's head.

"'Night, Lassie," he says, and he's gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Shawn would be lying if he claimed that he hadn't been hoping to hook up with Lassiter. If he claimed that he hadn't been hoping that Lassie would offer the kind of comfort that ended up in the bedroom. But that was before he saw Emily's body.

He'd thought that seeing her would help allay all the terrible feelings he was having. Would help her be at rest in his mind.

He should've known better.

When he called Lassiter, he'd fought to sound normal, to keep the pitiful plaintive tone out of his voice, but he's pretty sure he failed miserably. Lassiter sounded first bemused, then concerned.

Shawn knows why he keeps bouncing back to Lassiter. He does it because he knows Lassiter sees this stuff every day. And Lassiter, for his part, seems generally pretty untouched by it, emotion-wise. He hoped, somehow, that Lassiter would be able to explain to him why this happened. Or help him to see that it wasn't completely senseless. At the very least, Lassie could be a distraction from the awfulness in Shawn's skull.

Shawn had no idea how much of a distraction Lassiter would end up being.

He gets onto the freeway and drives too fast, relishing the roar of the bike beneath him, of the wind on his throat and wrists.

He doesn't know what happened. One moment he and Lassiter were talking, and the next, Lassiter's lips were on his. And Shawn completely lost control. Months of waiting, of wanting, unfurled in less than three seconds. Shawn had basically shoved Lassie down and had his way with him. He would feel bad about it if Lassie hadn't so obviously enjoyed it.

And afterwards.

He should have just shut the hell up and enjoyed the sex (for that matter, he should have let Lassie return the favor when he'd tried).

"Shawn, you idiot," he mumbles. He had pushed too hard. Asked too much of Lassiter. What did it matter? For once in his life, why couldn't he keep his damn mouth shut?

He is so angry at himself.

When he gets home, he calls Gus.

Gus picks up on the third ring. "Are you dying?" he mumbles.

"No."

The line goes dead. Shawn calls back.

"Dude," he complains. "You hung up on me."

"It's midnight, Shawn." Gus sounds marginally more awake now.

"On a Saturday!" Shawn points out.

Gus sighs. "It's Monday."

Huh. How about that. "Really? Sorry."

"Whatever." Gus sniffs. "What do you want?"

Shawn sighs. "I'm having Lassie problems."

The line goes dead again.

When Shawn calls back, Gus doesn't even bother saying hello. "I'm not listening to you lament in the middle of the night on a Monday, Shawn."

Shawn looks at the clock. "Technically, it's Tuesday." He drops onto the couch and puts his feet on the coffee table.

"No, Shawn."

"Fine." Shawn holds the phone in front of him and sticks his tongue out at it.

He hears Gus sigh on the other end of the phone. "Look," he says. "I'll reschedule my nine and ten o'clock appointments tomorrow. We'll get breakfast."

"Yay!" Shawn cheers. "Thanks, buddy."

Another sigh. "No problem, Shawn."

He sleeps pretty well after that.

* * *

Gus picks him up at eight-thirty.

"Okay," he says. "What's the emergency?"

"Whoa, no hello? No good morning?" Shawn buckles his seatbelt and looks at Gus with what he hopes is a wounded expression.

"You're the one with the problem so big it could barely wait until morning," Gus points out.

"Point," Shawn acknowledges. "In any case, good morning."

Gus harrumphs. He still looks annoyed. "Good morning."

"Breakfast burritos?" Shawn suggests.

Immediately, Gus looks placated. "You know that's right," he says.

Over breakfast burritos, Shawn comes clean.

"I kind of had...a run-in...with Lassie," he says.

Gus narrows his eyes and puts his burrito down. "When you say run-in, you better mean that he tried to drive over you in a Taco Bell parking lot."

Shawn snorts. "Hardly. I'm quick like Kwai Chang."

"Then..." Gus lets the word hang.

"Yeah." Shawn takes a huge bite of burrito.

"So you - " Gus raises his eyebrows and flaps one hand in the air.

Shawn swallows the bite. "What is that, a bird wing? This isn't _Ladyhawke_, Gus. Plus, that would make Lassie Rutger Hauer and me Michelle Pfeiffer." He tilts his head to the side. "Actually, I'm okay with being Michelle Pfeiffer."

"Shawn." Gus glares at him. "Focus."

"Sorry."

"So what happened?" Gus looks as though he's trying his best not to look completely displeased, but he's doing a terrible job of it.

"I was..." Shawn thinks for a moment. "Sad."

Gus's frown eases a little. "Lots of people are sad, Shawn. They don't go around making inadvisable sexual choices."

"Actually," Shawn says, "that's exactly what they do. Haven't you seen _High Fidelity_?"

"They ended up together at the end, Shawn," Gus says. "So it doesn't count as inadvisable. Plus, that makes you Iben Hjejle."

"Is _that_ how you say her name?" Shawn says. He considers. "I'm quite the attractive blond today."

Gus shakes his head, as though to clear out distractions. "You really need to focus," he says. "Tell me what happened."

Shawn recounts. "Lassie showed up at my house. I was sad. And I may have kissed him a little bit."

"Oh. Great." Gus puts his head in his hand. "This is a bad idea, Shawn."

"Oh, it gets better," Shawn says. "He freaked out and left, but he forgot his phone, so I dropped it off the next day, and he was hung over and all rough and..." Shawn shivers a little, thinking of scruffy Lassiter, curled next to him on the couch. "Anyway, we hung out all day and it was cool, no big deal."

"Uh huh." Gus raises an eyebrow. "And then what."

"But yesterday." Shawn looks away, feeling guilty. "I went to see Emily's body. And then I felt sad again, so I went to Lassie's, and the next thing I know we're - " He flaps his hand in the air. "You know. Ladyhawking."

Gus's frown has reappeared. "Uh huh," he says. "So now you're...what? Dating?"

Shawn snorts. "Yeah. Right."

"I told you this was a bad idea, Shawn," Gus says.

"I know! I know!" Shawn throws his hands up. "You think I don't know that? Lassie's obviously completely freaked and now I don't know what to do. My cards are on the table, dude. Like..." He thinks about the fact that he 'fessed up to Lassiter on the plane, about the fact that Lassiter knows he isn't psychic. "Like, totally on the table."

"Wait a minute," Gus says sharply. "How many cards are we talking? Flop, turn, river?" He is suddenly sitting up a lot straighter and he's looking at Shawn suspiciously.

Shawn shifts, feeling guilty. "Um." He makes a face. "It's kind of an open hand."

"Shawn." Gus doesn't move a muscle. "You didn't tell him about Psych."

"...No?" Shawn tries.

"Oh my God, Shawn." Gus collapses backwards. "We're going to be arrested. At the very least, we're going to be out of a job. Or," he amends, "you're going to be out of a job."

"He said he wasn't going to tell anyone!" Shawn says.

"How do you know he's going to keep that promise?" Gus demands.

"Hey." Shawn points at Gus. "If there's one thing Lassie is, it's trustworthy. He has integrity, Gus. He's like Tom Cruise in the beginning of _Risky Business." _He grins. "Which makes me Rebecca de Mornay. And blond. Boom."

"Shawn!"

"Sorry." Shawn looks at his hands. "But look, dude, I don't think he's going to tell anyone. Really."

"Okay." Gus looks skeptical. "But that doesn't solve the problem with you and him."

"Yeah, I know," Shawn says. "What do I do? I'm at a little bit of a loss, here."

"You're not going to listen to anything I tell you anyway," Gus points out.

"Point," Shawn says. "That's two for you today."

"Proceed with caution, Shawn," Gus says. "I don't like this at all. Proceed with extreme, extreme caution."

"Gotcha," Shawn says, and he feels better already, just for telling Gus about it. He affects an East Coast accent. "Time a ya life, huh kid?" he says.

* * *

The phone buzzes half an hour after Gus drops him off. It's a text from Lassiter.

_Have dinner with me tonight._

Shawn almost drops the phone.

When he recovers, he starts to respond. Before he can hit Send, though, another text message comes through. Also from Lassiter. _PS sorry about yesterday._

Lassie is sorry? _Lassie_ is sorry?

Shawn is lightheaded and loopy with elation. Second chance! He has a second chance!

He texts Lassiter back: _k. dont b sry_

Lassiter's response. _Pick you up at 7._

By six, Shawn is ready to go and pacing the house. He doesn't remember the last time he was this anxious about a date. A date! He has a date with Lassiter! He feels like jumping up and down, but he's afraid he'd puke from the combination of movement and nervousness. And all those Snickers he'd eaten.

He goes back into the bathroom and spends too much time tousling and re-tousling his hair. He tries on every necklace he owns. He paces and paces and paces until finally it's five til seven and he hears Lassiter parking outside.

He is outside and locking the door five seconds later. And then Lassiter is unfolding himself from his car and oh dear Lord Shawn can't believe how good he looks. Dark pants, green shirt with the sleeves rolled up. No tie, and the top two buttons undone. Curls of dark hair peeking out at his throat. He's not wearing his holster, for once.

He meets Shawn halfway between the car and Shawn's front door. "Hi," he says uncomfortably.

"Hi." Shawn shoves his hands in his pockets. "You look good."

"Thanks." Lassiter touches the buttons of his shirt self-consciously. "So do you."

Shawn's wearing his nicest shirt: navy plaid, one gold button at the tail. He doesn't have tailored pants like Lassie, but he found the pair that was the least wrinkled, and he's wearing his shiniest shoes.

He doesn't get a chance to thank Lassiter, though, because Lassie is putting a hand on the small of Shawn's back and steering him toward the car.

"You okay with Italian?" Lassie says.

Shawn would have said yes to a plate of rocks garnished with grass clippings. "Sure," he says. And when Lassiter opens the passenger door for Shawn, when his fingertips graze Shawn's shoulder as he sits down, Shawn thinks he could die happy.

Lassiter is very quiet on the drive to the restaurant. When they're seated (in a booth in the corner, checked tablecloth and a candle in a raffia bottle and everything), he takes a deep breath.

"Spencer," he says. "Shawn." He toys with his fork, not meeting Shawn's eyes.

"Lassie," Shawn replies. "Carlton." He reaches across the table and gently takes the fork out of Lassiter's hand and places it on the table.

Another deep breath. "The truth is..."

Shawn waits. He's trying hard to act calm, but his heart is racing.

Lassiter clears his throat. "The truth is, Spencer..."

Shawn thinks _What happened to 'Shawn?'_ but keeps his mouth shut.

And then: worst timing ever.

"May I take a drink order?" says the waiter, and Shawn wants to punch him right in his perfect teeth. He glares daggers.

Lassiter flushes. "Ah. Drinks."

"I'll have a Sprite," Shawn growls.

"Um." Lassiter hesitates. "Water. And, um, Glenlivet, rocks."

"Very good." Perfect Teeth backs away, looking absolutely unaware that Shawn hates him with a fiery passion.

"Sorry," Shawn says. "What were you going to say, Lassie?"

Lassiter passes a hand over the back of his neck. "Ah. Let me think."

Shawn bites back the urge to prompt him by repeating what Lassiter said before Perfect Damn Teeth interrupted. He waits, feeling sweaty and nervous.

"Maybe we can talk about it later," Lassiter says at last, and Shawn can't take it.

"Later!" he exclaims. "Lassie, come on, I've been waiting for _later _for months. Later, no. Tell me." He ducks his head to catch Lassiter's gaze, huffing when Lassiter glances away again.

And then he catches himself.

"I'm going to shut up," Shawn says. "Lassie, when you want to tell me whatever it is you're going to tell me, you'll tell me. I'm going to stop asking. Quiet as a mouse. Quiet as that girl from the Ring crawling out of the TV."

Abruptly, Lassiter laughs. "No you won't."

Shawn considers. "You're right. I won't."

Lassiter leans back in his chair. He picks up the fork again and taps the tines against the table. "It's..." He pauses. "Despite my better judgment, Spencer, I don't dislike you."

"Oh, Lassie!" Shawn leans forward, lacing his fingers together under his chin. "That's so romantic. I may swoon."

"Shut up." Lassiter scowls. Then, grudgingly: "I'm actually...rather fond of you."

"Getting warmer." Shawn puts a hand on the table, then slides it across the tablecloth until it's half an inch from Lassiter's. He stares at Lassiter, hoping his expression conveys exactly how much he wants to hear the rest.

Lassiter's Adam's apple bobs as he gulps. "Shawn..."

"You're almost there, Lassie," Shawn says in a low voice. "Little further."

"You're doing it again," Lassiter points out.

Shawn smiles. "I know," he says. "But at least you were expecting it." He taps Lassiter's knuckle gently with his fingertip.

Lassiter pulls his hands away and folds his arms. "All right, all right. I give up. I like you, okay?"

"Yesssssss!" Shawn raises a fist. "Finally."

Lassiter rolls his eyes. "You are..."

"Amazing?"

"No."

"Phenomenal?"

Another eye roll. "No."

"Sexy?" Shawn tries.

Lassiter tilts his head. Smirks. "Maybe," he says. "I was thinking more along the lines of _incorrigible._"

"That too," Shawn concedes. "Now that we've established the basic groundwork of our relationship, should we get out of here and go have lots and lots of sex?"

Lassiter turns red. "No," he says. "We're eating."

* * *

The closer they get to Shawn's apartment, the more anxious he gets. He really, really, really wants Lassiter to come inside, but what if he won't? What if he changes his mind about Shawn? What if he decides he doesn't want to do this, after all?

Lassiter pulls the car into the space nearest the building and puts it into Park, but doesn't turn off the engine. He doesn't move.

Neither does Shawn. Finally: "Sooooo. Lassie."

Lassiter's voice is careful, even. "Spencer."

"It's still early," Shawn says. He takes a gamble and puts his hand on Lassiter's thigh, just above the knee.

He sees Lassiter's gaze flick toward the clock. "It's Tuesday, Spencer." But he puts his hand over Shawn's.

"So?" Shawn can't focus. Lassiter's thumb smooths over the back of Shawn's hand, tiny slow passes, making Shawn's skin crackle and burn.

"So some of us have to work in the morning," Lassiter says. Then he lifts his hand from Shawn's, puts it on the back of Shawn's neck, and pulls. And Lassiter is kissing him. It's a gentle kiss; slow, full of promise. Nothing like last night, but somehow infinitely better.

When he draws back, Lassiter's smile is almost imperceptible. "Friday," he says. "How about Friday night."

Shawn's heart leaps. "Okay," he squeaks.

"Great." Lassiter is all business once more. He pats Shawn on the leg. "Now get out of here, Spencer, I've got a bedtime."


	12. Chapter 12

Carlton feels jittery and irritable all day Friday, and he knows why. He's only talked to Spencer twice since dinner on Tuesday, and hasn't seen him at all. Spencer is due at his house at eight and Carlton is anxious.

_This is Spencer,_ he reminds himself over and over. Annoying, pesky Spencer. Still, when he gets home after work, he spends an hour reorganizing his shelves and wiping down surfaces before he gets in the shower.

Spencer always looks as though he stepped out of some kind of trendy menswear catalog, but Carlton pretty much only has work clothes, and his selection is limited. He omits the jacket, since Spencer seemed to like that on Tuesday.

At eight, Carlton hears the high-pitched whine of Spencer's bike, then abrupt silence as the engine cuts off. Spencer knocks a moment later.

"Hi," he says, when Carlton opens the door. He's wearing his usual thirty-odd layers and carrying a paper bag.

"You went a little strong on the cologne," Carlton says, standing back so Spencer can come inside.

"I know," Spencer says regretfully. He scrubs at his neck with the sleeve of his jacket. "I was nervous and oversprayed." He sets the bag on the table.

"What'd you bring?" Carlton asks.

"Thai. That okay?" Spencer chortles. "Thai good, you like shirt?"

Another non-sequitur. Carlton supposes he'll have to get used to those. That, or start watching a lot more TV.

He chooses to ignore it. "You don't want to go out?"

Spencer snorts. "Are you kidding me? And spend the entire evening competing with Frank Sinatra music and waiters with the worst timing ever? No way." He opens the bag and begins removing styrofoam containers, one after another. "I want you all to myself, Lassie."

Carlton takes a moment to reflect that this is rather flattering, then busies himself taking plates out of the cabinet.

They eat on the couch with the TV on and muted. They talk about work and it's easy and comfortable, and Carlton almost forgets that Spencer is one of the most irritating people on the planet. Because when he's here, when it's just him and Carlton, he loses that adolescent bravado. He's actually...rather pleasant.

Then Carlton mentions Emily, and it's an accident, really, they just happened to be talking about pharmaceuticals and Guster, but he sees the damage immediately. Spencer's expression darkens and he looks away. Falls suddenly quiet.

"I'm sorry," Carlton says immediately.

"No." Spencer waves a hand, obviously trying to be dismissive and blasé and failing miserably. "It's fine." He puts his plate on the coffee table beside Carlton's. And Carlton can't, for the life of him, think of anything to say.

But he knows how Spencer feels.

"It gets better," he offers, and Spencer looks at him.

"I finished high school a while ago, Lassie, and I didn't start dating men until well into my twenties," he says.

Carlton rolls his eyes. "I meant how you feel about the case."

"I know." Spencer sighs. "It sucks right now, though." He shakes his head once, hard, like a dog trying to clear water out of its ears. Then he looks at Carlton and waggles his eyebrows. "Monday helped," he says.

"I bet." Carlton snorts.

Spencer widens his eyes and angles his chin toward his chest. "I wouldn't mind being distracted again," he says.

"Are you batting your eyes at me, Spencer?" Carlton says.

A grin. "That depends," Spencer says. "Is it working?"

Carlton scoots toward Spencer. "Maybe," he says.

Spencer scoots toward Carlton. "I'll try harder."

They're inches apart now, thighs touching, and Carlton breaks first. Closes the distance between them and kisses Spencer.

Spencer's arm comes up and wraps around Carlton's shoulders.

"Guess it worked," he murmurs against Carlton's mouth. Then he's parting Carlton's lips gently with his tongue and Carlton feels a bolt of electricity shoot from his mouth straight to his groin. He reaches for Spencer's shirt. Fumbles with the buttons at the collar.

"Spencer," he mumbles. "Why do you have to wear so many layers?"

Spencer pulls away long enough to quickly undo the top two buttons. Then he crosses his arms, grabs his shirttail, and strips off the button-down shirt and both T-shirts underneath.

"I get cold," he explains.

Carlton thinks of the night in the hotel in Boston. Of Spencer strutting around shirtless and laughing. Of how much he wanted to put his hands on that smooth, tanned skin.

And now he can, and is, and can do so as much as he wants to.

He wraps his hands around Spencer's waist, his mouth on collarbones and shoulder and throat. He hears Spencer moaning, curling both hands into Carlton's hair.

When he reaches for the buttons of his own shirt, Spencer bats his hands out of the way. "Let me," he growls. He unbuttons the shirt with lightning speed. Pushes it out of the way. Carlton tenses and groans as Spencer trails his lips over his shoulder.

Spencer stands up abruptly. Reaches for Carlton's hands and pulls.

"Bed," he says urgently, and Carlton obliges.

Once they're in the bedroom, Spencer is stepping out of his socks. Unbuckling his belt. Carlton is still, tense, heart pounding in his throat. Wanting Spencer. He is so hard he is aching.

Spencer's eyes are glowing like coals as he unbuttons his jeans and slides them over his hips. Then they're off and he's kicking them aside and Spencer is completely, entirely naked in front of him.

Carlton looks because he has to. Can't help himself. Trail of chestnut curls starting at Spencer's navel, traveling downward and widening, and oh, Carlton can see why Spencer is so damn confident all the time.

And then Spencer is stepping toward him, taking Carlton's right wrist, guiding Carlton's hand to his erection.

When Carlton's fingers wrap around Spencer, when he feels him pulsing and hard beneath smooth skin, Carlton feels as though he might pass out.

"See?" Spencer's voice is low, raspy, his lips against Carlton's. "You have quite an effect on me, Detective."

Carlton can't talk. He just nods.

Spencer puts his hand over Carlton's. Pumps. Slowly. Eyes on Carlton.

Carlton catches his rhythm and a moment later, Spencer lets go. Puts both hands on Carlton's shoulders. When Carlton' movements quicken, he lets out a shuddering moan and closes his eyes.

Carlton kisses him, then pushes him against the wall and drops lightly to the floor.

"You don't have to - " Spencer starts to say, but he breaks off when Carlton leans forward and puts his mouth on Spencer's cock.

"Oh, Lassie," he breathes, and he is salty and sweet and _Ohh_.

Carlton focuses because he hasn't done this in a long, long time and he wants to do it right. He moves his mouth and his hand together, taking his cues from Spencer's moans, from Spencer's hands tight on his shoulders. He closes his eyes and tries to memorize this moment. Spencer's scent. Taste. The sound of his voice.

It doesn't take long before Spencer's breathing quickens, gets shallower. "Lassie," he says. His voice is strangled. "You should probably - " and he's trying to pull back and Carlton mumbles "uh-uh" and grabs Spencer's hips.

"_Lassie,_" Spencer says, sounding a little desperate now. He tries to pull away again, and when Carlton yanks him closer he gives up and a second later he's coming, groaning and shaking and hot in Carlton's throat. Carlton swallows, coughs, swallows again. Waits until Spencer is softening against his tongue before he pulls away.

He wipes his mouth on his hand and looks up.

Spencer is leaning heavily against the wall, his arms slack at his sides, and he's gazing at Carlton. His eyes are soft, his expression wondering. He reaches out and touches Carlton's cheek.

Carlton stands and Spencer pulls him in and kisses him, mouth open and soft, his fingertips light on Carlton's chest.

"You're still dressed," he murmurs, eyes still closed.

"Not entirely." Carlton takes Spencer's hand and puts it on his stomach. He walks backwards, slowly, leading Spencer to the bed. Pushes Spencer down onto it.

Spencer pushes back until he's sitting against the headboard. He watches Carlton, his eyes going from Carlton's face to his tented fly. "I hope you're about to change that," he says.

Carlton's limbs feel loose and warm. He unbuckles his belt. "Yeah," he says. He unbuttons his pants and pushes them down, taking his boxers with them, freeing his erection.

Spencer stares, lips parting.

"I no longer believe in recovery time," he says. He reaches for Carlton. "Come here."

Carlton crawls onto the bed next to Spencer and pushes back the sheets. Spencer's hands are on him, running up and over his chest and stomach. Carlton groans and leans his forehead against Spencer's, eyes closed. His breath catches when Spencer's fingers trace lightly over his hip.

"I..." Spencer says. "I admit, Lassie, I prefer you like this to yelling at me in the interrogation room." He grazes Carlton's lips with his as his hand finds Carlton. Carlton hisses against Spencer's mouth and his hips jerk involuntarily.

He opens his eyes, sees Spencer's dilated pupils. "I'll still yell at you in the interrogation room," he manages to say.

Spencer's hand is moving and Carlton grits his teeth. He feels the pad of Spencer's thumb against him, smearing drops of moisture across the head of Carlton's cock, and he clenches his jaw.

"I'm counting on it," Spencer says, and his voice is rough but his hand is gentle. Carlton feels his heartbeat in every inch of his body, he's hypnotized by the warm pressure of Spencer's hand on him, by the tiny gold and brown flecks in those hazel irises, by the heat of Spencer's breath on his face. He's so entranced by how good Spencer feels against him that it startles him to realize he is on the verge of orgasm.

Spencer lips curl, hint of a smile, and his pace quickens just a little. Just enough to send Carlton over the edge. He comes, shaking, hears himself groan through clenched teeth.

When he can finally open his eyes, he sees Spencer's triumphant expression.

"You always look that smug after sex?" Carlton asks.

"Usually." Spencer looks down and Carlton follows his gaze. He flushes with simultaneous embarrassment and satisfaction to see himself splashed up Spencer's stomach. "Be right back."

He hops out of bed. Disappears into the bathroom. Carlton hears the water running and in a moment he's back, stomach clean and damp.

He slides back into bed. "Hi," he says, tucking himself in next to Carlton.

Carlton curls his arm, pulling Spencer against him. "Hey."

Spencer tips his head back, looking up at Carlton with big eyes. "Does this mean I can stay?"

Carlton reaches up and flicks Spencer's ear.

"Yeah," he says. "You can stay."

_fin_


End file.
